Silver Linings?

My husband was born and raised in Lyon, although he moved to the southern coast of France years before we met. The Lyonnais look down their noses a bit at anyone who is not from there. They esteem their food to be the best in the world, seal a deal with a handshake and take pride in their own reserved dignity. People who have known one another for decades still use the formal "vous" and address one another by last name. (Sometimes even married couples speak to each other as Monsieur or Madame). The standard rebuff, if a friendly outsider oversteps the mark and either uses the "tu", or tries to greet with a Gallic kiss, is the query: "Did we perhaps herd pigs together?" 

Aforementioned husband has a story that for him shows how commendably private his Lyonnais peers are wont to be. He takes as example a hypothetical man, with whom he had regular business contacts for many years and they considered one another as friends. Upon meeting him one day the answer to "How are you?" was that the man's wife had died after a long illness. My husband thinks it is laudable and appropriate that no-one knew she was sick.

They are not open to discussing personal details with anyone. 

I live in a different world. I see every stranger as a potential new friend and have found that if we share we can often help each other.

Back to "The Stoic One", who has been a grumpy and unreasonable beast for a week or so. Now, on the Richter Scale of grumpy and unreasonable he is usually somewhere between a five and a six. Recently he has been registering a regular nine. I have the same stresses that he does, as we work at our business and life together, so short shrift and much slamming of doors punctuate our interactions.

Yesterday TSO mentioned that he wanted only soup for dinner, as his stomach was hurting. Alarms went off in my head. Last time he mentioned a stomach pain he was hospitalized for four days with a GI bleed. There have been too many accidents and surgeries that required anti-inflammatories,which did their damage, whilst doing their good. 

I also must admit that it crossed my mind; "Yay, I won't have to make coffee tonight". 

When I have finished my work for the day and driven home, taken care of the dog, made dinner etc. I like to relax at the table. I have a glass of wine. I feel as though I'm done. I hope that TSO will get distracted and not remember the espresso phase of the evening. It seems so much work for an inch and a half of black coffee. Grinding the beans, cleaning out the old residue, filling the water, not too little, not too much, and then waiting. The interminable wait for the bubbling, hissing gurgle that turns into a happy trickle. It's not long enough to be able to do anything else whilst I wait but it prevents me from sitting and relaxing. So, horrible person that I am, I did consider that we had a possible case of a "Silver Linings" on our hands.

I have also been wondering if the stomach ache caused the bad temper or if the opposite might not be true. I have held my tongue on that, for now. A discussion for a day when my opponent (oops, husband), is at full strength.

Iris-Hint to Grand Couturiers

Dear Grand Couturiers, 

I have yet to see a red-carpet ensemble as beautiful as this.

A Satisfying Day

Today was a good day. It started off promising; when I went outside this morning, it was no longer hot enough to make a human sizzle. This human drove off to the stables which she has rediscovered recently and doesn't really know why she had gone anywhere else. (Pause to kick my own butt).

As this stables actually allows riders to prepare their own designated horses, I was able to experience the wonderful contentment of long boots that are suddenly comfortable for walking, as well as riding. I had been considering bringing a change of footwear to wear down to the paddock to bring in the horses. The last couple of times I've been thinking about the blisters my Harry Halls were forming on my heels more than anything more equestrian. So, Hurrah for comfy feet!

I also have a new helmet. I was told that my old velvet cap, with the rotted out silk lining, that leaves disgusting brown sprinkles in my hair, was no longer of an approved nature. I felt quite special and liked the more modern look and feel.

We have a teacher who pays attention and offers constructive criticism! I feel like repeating that in capitals. 

It has been my experience here in Northern California that Riding School Lessons are given by people (often young) who can ride but have no notion of passing information along. My intermittent lessons at several different barns have had me on a horse, being told to walk, trot, canter and sometimes go over poles. No discussion of the aids, no: "head up - heels down" to "take the fun out" of the entertainment. I don't ride for entertainment. I love the science and attempts at progress and unity for myself and the horse, and the reasons why things work or don't work! Riding in Europe comes with buckets of info. It probably does here for the horse-owners who can choose a trainer. I have had a hard time finding what I was looking for, until now. Suffice to say I was reminded, in detail, of my imperfections and I can't wait until I can go back again and get picked apart some more. 

Who, Me?

The last few weeks have been full to the brim with things that for good or bad distracted, overwhelmed and left me without an organized enough corner in my brain to be able to fulfil the duties bestowed upon me with these generous nudges from the sceptre of greatness.
I have been working on this post since early April and apologize in advance to anyone I tag or nominate, for whom this is a repetition of awards already received. On the other hand, no one is heard complaining about multiple Oscars, so: "Get Over Yourself!"

In Chronological Order: The Zombie chicken Award!
from "Don't Feed The Pixies"
The Blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the Zombie Chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all...
And the nominees are:
Delusions of Adequacy
A Good Horse
Magic Lantern Show
Smartie's Diary
Shattered into One Piece


Kreativ Writing...
from Owen at "Magic Lantern Show"

Rules of the award.
1.Winner may display logo on his/her blog.
2.Put a link to person from whom award was received.
3.Nominate 6 blogs.
4.Leave message for nominees.

And the nominees are:
"The Diary of Dagenham Dave"
"Friko"
"HalfwaytoFrance"
"The Wind in your Vagina"
"LaCheshireChat"
"Tidings of Magpies"

In addition to the above, highly appreciated plethora of honors, I was tagged by Dave "Pie-n-Mash" from Daggenham
The rules are:
-Respond and rework
-Answer questions on your own blog
-Replace one question
-Tag 8 people

and the Tagees are:
Wiola
Not Waving but Drowning
Le Puy
One Word is Enough
Follywoods
Bloggertropolis
Snail Beach Sheep
The Watercats

What are your current obsessions?
Blogging: thinking through postings in my head.

Which item from your wardrobe do you wear most often?
Gardening gloves and sun hats.

What's for Dinner?
Off to the unknown; due to our inability to make a timely excuse to avoid dinner with Feral Grandchildren tonight. Oh Joy!

Last thing you bought?
Gift certificate for daughter and hubby (not owners of feral grandchildren) to go to nearby big animal rescue, where Bed & Breakfast Lodges overlook Elephant playground.

What are you listening to?
Missy Higgins.

If you were a God/Goddess who would you be?
Sisyphus - see prior post.

Favorite holiday spots?
New Orleans, but haven't made it back since Katrina.
Cornwall, England
Anywhere friends and family reside.

Reading right now?
Narrow Dog to Carcassonne by Terry Darlington.

Who or what makes you laugh until you are weak?
Any fool who thinks it might be lucrative to steal my purse, identity or credit cards!

Who's your Hero/Heroine?
I know a ton! People who put on a brave face through illness, hardship and adversity. Leaders by example. Nancy Reagan was one. I always dismissed her as "Hollywood Fluff", until she stayed by her husband's side through Alzheimer's. Seeing her kneeling at his tomb, not wanting to leave him even then still brings tears of admiration to my eyes.

First Spring Thing?
Brushing, brushing and brushing my sweet old Collie dog as she "Blows her Coat." The place looks like I have held a sheep massacre here.

What's the funniest thing you ever saw in your life?
Hubbies test-drive of a Go-Ped (motorized scooter), which left without him, leaving him on his back in the street outside our house.

Favourite Film?
Shirley Valentine.

Care to share some wisdom?
-You never learn anything for free.
-When you are looking for a hand, you will find you have two of them, one on the end of each arm.
-It is unfortunate but worldly wealth does not necessarily equate with class.
-Kindness does matter.

If you were a tree, which one would you be, and why?
London Plane Tree: This will be a post for another day.

Name fictitious characters who made a lasting impression on you.
Mrs. Do-as-you-would-be-done-by from The Water Babies
Polyanna
Jayne Ayre
Jo from Little Women
Eeyore
Don Quixote

4 words to describe yourself.
Optimistic
Loyal
Compassionate
Practical

Flower Power!

Sunday was Hot as Hell! I like my share of sunshine, but waking up at 6:30 am to ingest an Alka Seltzer (we overdid the din-dins and drinky-poos Saturday night), it was already 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Discretion being surely the better part of valor in this case, I gave up on my 9am riding lesson and went back to bed for an hour. We subsequently spent a lazy day, mostly indoors, as it was too hot to even enjoy the pool.

The result of all that added calorific sunshine to the neighborhood's already well fed and watered plants has been a "bloom-boom" and waves of aggressive perfumery that would make a Triffid feel embarrassed at it's own paltry attempt at post-apocalyptic World domination, in comparison.

Yesterday, although ten degrees cooler than the triple digits of the day before, it was still nice and toasty as I set out in the morning with my old furry dog to complete our morning rounds of the 'Hood.

First off, my next-door neighbor has jasmine as ground cover. Wham! Into a solid wall of fragrance. Surviving that caramel-sweet encounter we moved slowly on, passing nuclear powered English Roses and almost succumbing to the nauseating droning fragrance of Mexican Orange; the "B" list of citrus smells. We hadn't yet made it to the end of the block and it was obvious that there was some kind of teeth-baring face-off going on, to decide who would be Alpha Aroma plant for the day.

Continuing bravely into the olfactory essences; unmitigated by the slightest wisp of air movement; we rounded the bend into a staccato hail of Gardenia gunshots, the source recognizable by the telltale creamy-white muzzle flashes in the dark green foliage. Ducking for cover we made it into a place of temporary respite; a garden planted with drought tolerant native plants on one side and, on the other, the fried-to-a-crisp remains of what just yesterday was a spectacular display of bearded iris.

Into the home stretch now, although mauled by undiluted honeysuckle and pursued by Peonies; which I usually liken to the magic drops placed on the eyelids to enhance the experience of a Midsummer Night's Dream; but on this day was so strong as to be a shockingly noisome Bitch-slap of scent. One last effort to get past the high-pitched exhuberance of Sweet-Peas and thankfully back into the house, whence to recover from the woozy and pscychadelic effects brought on without ever having smoked a thing. Whew!

Visitors from Xanadu

I grew up with a Mother who was renowned for her ability to introduce the right people to one another. She always remembered who had what needs or interests and simply went ahead and hooked people up socially. She was networking before the word was invented.

When I had been living in France for a year, I popped home to the U.K. to visit my parents in Cornwall. 

"Popped" is, of course,euphemistic for the seventeen hour trek from Nice; North to Chartres and then East to West across France to Roscoff in Brittany; to catch the car-ferry to Plymouth, and then a couple of hours' driving home to Falmouth. All this in an ancient orange Skoda, which was built when the Czech Republic was still Czechoslovakia! It was a good sturdy car; heavy enough to gather some speed downhill, with the wind behind it; but struggling to escape it's own dark burnt-oil fumes if the terrain levelled off.  I had more stops to purchase oil than gasoline on that trip.

Mum and Dad lived within a few hundred yards of the harbour and customs house quay. The main street was between them and the water. All very picturesque. Mum had grown up there, I was born there and after all my parents' travels it was where they chose to retire. Aunts, Uncles, old boyfriends, children Mum knew from the days when she played piano to accompany the ballet classes' attempts at "good toes-naughty toes" and some saucier characters from the days when she accompanied a Big Band in this Naval Town during and after the war. Friends from the Wine Bar down the street or from the Fishmongers' or Bakers', Mum knew everyone.

I thought nothing of being told that I should introduce myself to the owners of an interesting clothing store around the corner. They were friends with a couple who had taken a caretaker position in the South of France, near St Tropez and I was living/working in France so it made sense. I went into Xanadu and chatted briefly with the owners. I gave them my contact info and that was that.

A couple of months later, back in France, near Toulon, still South but "not as nice as Nice", (Damn that Mistral wind). I received a call from an English speaking person with a problem. They had a broken tractor fan-belt and no idea how to explain that in French to anyone who might procure them a new one. I have to admit to my paucity of vocabulary in this specialized field, at the time. I barely knew about fan-belts in English, let alone French. However my Boyfriend and subsequent Husband, (for better or worse, as I keep reminding myself), was mechanically inclined although he spoke no English.

We decided that we must meet to sort this out and, the rest is history, as we say. The Visitors from Xanadu became lifelong friends, we visited them often, eating wonderful meals together, or chopping wood from fallen chestnut trees in the hilly, beautiful Propriete which they were care-taking. My first taste of chilled Sorrel soup was from sorrel grown in their vegetable patch, tilled by the tractor in question. 

They are retired and back on British soil now, but with a son who is a chef on the Island of Ibiza and a daughter trying to renovate an olive farm in Spain, they still travel often to warmer climes. 

The last time we met face to face was in England, several years ago, when we had to meet outside my parents' house because Dad's early symptoms of Alzheimer's included a certain paranoia and distrust of outsiders and, by then, Mum's Parkinson's was also advanced and she wasn't up to challenging him.

I hope that my parents have not bequeathed their health problems to me. I know that, like Witchcraft, the networking gene has been passed along; not only to me but to my daughter. 

Keep Your Hot Rocks to Yourself, Please!

I have been putting off going for a pedicure for several reasons, but with the announcement of an upcoming weekend heat wave and the happy synchronicity of my blue, "previously-stubbed," toe nail growing out, tomorrow may be the day.

The results of a professional pedicure are indisputable; glossy red toe nails; silky smooth skin; cuticles whacked back to no longer resemble caulking, encroaching along the sides of an ancient tub. No question, I need a pedicure, and yet I hesitate. 

The ladies who have mastered these "footy" arts are invariably Thai or Vietnamese. They are sweet and pretty and smile muchly, but I cannot understand their particular version of this English language, which I usually so enjoy. They, apparently don't understand me either.

They are frequented by clients who don't mind spending an hour of their lives soaking their feet, and who positively crave having hot wax treatments massaged into the calves of their legs. As far as I am concerned, my feet stop at the ankle. I don't want anyone I don't know reasonably well rubbing my legs.

So, when I walk into a nail salon and get through the smiling, head-bobbing, greeting phase; pass the little altar with it's ribbons, bells and/or incense burning; and try to explain that all I want is a pedicure; short version; no frills. I always wonder what lies ahead.

This is how it usually goes:

My feet soak and I feel as if I have already spent more time than necessary getting hot and pruny. The girls are good though. They trim and snip and apply oils. They act surprised and a little offended when I fend off their approach with the hot wax. Did I not tell you I don't want that? Please just paint my nails and let me out of here.

They are tenacious. Back in numbers, one woman tries to talk me into a manicure, which for gardening, horse riding, construction business me, is a lost cause. She hints I may need other painful services involving hot wax. No, No, Not I! The final assault is from behind. They come at me with hot round river rocks and rub them on the back of my neck and shoulders. Again I am a curmudgeon and resist.

I suspect that these ageless girls understood all along that I wanted a fast track, minimally invasive pedicure. I believe that by feigning  incomprehension these business women put me in a position of paying for the more complete services which have been forced upon me.

We are into the final round of our battle of wills. This is the part I understand and appreciate.

My pedicurista applies multiple layers of lacquer. Clear then red, red again then more clear. Shellacked like a corvette, my toes don't look half bad.  

Red horses in Ireland - Jon Carroll

My wife loves to ride horses. My younger daughter loves to ride horses. I do not love to ride horses. I believe that horses wish me ill. The horses sense my fear, and therefore they do wish me ill. It is a self-fulfilling prophecy.

We were traveling in Ireland, attempting to find our roots. We were shown a crumbling section of wall, the only remnant of the once-mighty Carroll castle. In the ninth century, we pretty much ran the joint.

Then the evil O'Somethings took over. Oh, it was a sad time.

After three minutes of communing with our ancestors, we drove on to the prestigious riding academy. We were given fine, large, high-spirited horses. My horse was red, with a wild eye. I had to mount him by standing on a fence. 

Tracy and Shana mounted their horses the regular way. I had to use the Dopey American Mounting Device. Already I had self-esteem issues. Your stout writers do not, in general, make the best horse-men. They do not look convincing in the saddle.

Off we went! Oh, what fun! Shana and Tracy were laughing with their heads thrown back. They were at one with their animals. I was at two with my animal.

The countryside was lush, damp and green and filled with trees with low limbs. We trotted along a roadway, and I tried to post. I can post for about 17 seconds before my body becomes confused. Then I just bounce along and pray for the horse to die.

Suddenly, more excitement! The horses veered off the roadway and started climbing a muddy hill. "Whoopee," yelled Tracy "Ha ha HA!" whooped Shana "Lean forward, " said the O'wrangler to me. 

Then he said: "Don't grab the mane!"

I knew that was wrong. On the other hand, the horse seemed to swerve so that every branch hit me in the face. It knew, and I knew that it knew, and it knew that I knew that it knew, but it didn't care.

So I grabbed the useful mane. If I was going down, I was taking a handful of hair with me.

The ride lasted nine days. Empires rose and fell as we plunged through the shrubbery. Finally, we came into an open meadow and slowed down. I was breathing shallowly.

Tracy and Shana looked deeply satisfied. There's a thing with women and horses; I know that. I've read the advanced text books. The flush to the cheeks, the maidenly downcast eyes, the non-stop grinning; I know what that's about.

"Isn't this great?" said Tracy.

'It seems to be over, at least," I said.

We looked across the meadow to a lake and beyond that, yet another castle. The air was crisp and sweet with the scent of new grass. My horse, suddenly quiet, ambled down the hill to the lake. I began to feel almost peaceful.

"Don't let him go in the lake!" screamed the O'wrangler. I tried to urge my horse to stop, but it went implacably on. I pulled on the reins. I said, "Whoa there, big fella." Nothing. In we went. I felt my feet get wet.

I thought: Gee, this isn't so bad. It's sort of peaceful. The horse is thigh-deep in mud-it's not going to gallop anywhere. I really hate galloping.

"He's going to roll over!" screamed the O'wrangler "He loves to roll in the mud."

I found sudden courage. Using language taught to me by members of the Teamsters Union and a strength provided by fear of dying, I managed to kick the horse landward. The others were waiting for me on the shore.

Only a few of them laughed. My daughter stared at the far horizon, a corner of her mouth twitching. My wife said, "Isn't that castle pretty?" with the air of someone distracting a collie with a squeeze toy. I experienced some more self-esteem issues.

It Sounds So Simple...

To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent people and the respect of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to give of oneself; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition, to have played and laughed with enthusiasm and sung with exultation; to know even one life has breathed easier: this is to have succeeded.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Did they or Didn't they?- A dog by any other name.

The recent addition of Bo, the Portuguese Water Dog to the Obama family continues a long-standing  canine tradition at the White House.

A Portuguese is a great breed; a high energy, friendly working dog that loves to romp and play with children. I think they were very smart to take a dog who is not a tiny puppy; ready to roll, so to speak.  

A question and a comment have come to mind since I saw photos of the Obamadog.

Question: Did someone specifically choose a black and white dog? 

I want to say "Yes! That is how smart and thoughtful they are." I also want to say "No! They wouldn't be that Machiavellian." 

Comment: Those Kennedys will do anything to have a member of "The Clan" (Kennedy Clan, that is) on Pennsylvania Avenue.

 

Worthy Words & Daffodils

This was my very first post, back in December'08. Friko's comment on the poem I posted yesterday made me think of sharing this for a second time.

Some people have a way with words. When we read what they have written we feel that they are expressing our deepest thoughts. It confirms, empowers and inspires us; it helps burn a thought or image indelibly on our phsyche. Using and acknowledging their words can help us reach out to others. "See, this is the essence of what I feel" "that's what I was trying to say!"
In the Daffodil poem by William Wordsworth I appreciate the descriptions that take me with the author to a wild field of yellow flowers by a wind-swept lake.

What I value most about this poem is near the end "I gazed and gazed but little thought, What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

The poem not only takes me to places that I recognize from my English childhood but I can draw on those memories whenever I wish. They are mine. I often store away images and moments, knowing I will visit them again and they will warm and gladden me.

REVERIE by Claude Farhi

J'ai reve d'un palais lointain entoure de murs epais, ou la lumiere du soir, refleterait longtemps le chaud soleil d'or.

Ou les nombreuses chambres d'amour, remplies de coussins multicolores, delasseraient les amants fatigues, assoupis sur de la soie orange.

Ou les grands chien gris, aux tetes dogmatiques seraient couches de travers, les yeux mi-clos.

Ou les vents chauds venants du desert, rechaufferaient les corps denudes des dormeurs, prince et reines de sabbat.

Ou l'eau cristalline des fontaines, coulant en petites cascades, ricocherait sur les mosaiques bleuatres et troublerait les instants de torpeur.

Ou les nuits divines, peuplees d'etoiles filantes sur un ciel bleu marine, paillete d'or et d'argent, montreraient les planetes de Venus et de Jupiter.

Ou les musiques de l'Orient, berceraient nos oreilles en charmants sons de flutes et violons.

Ou Mozart L'Egyptien, envouterait nos esprits, par ses muses melomanes.

Vogage au bout du monde, ou les vaisseaux imposants ecarteraient l'eau des mers, afin d'y trouver le pays d'Aladin.

Rien qu'un univers de torpeur, de felicite et de volupte.

I dreamt of a faraway palace, circled by thick walls, where the evening light would endure, reflecting the hot golden sun.

Where numerous boudoirs filled with multicolored cushions, refresh spent lovers, drowsing on the orange silk.

Where large grey dogs with dogmatic heads would lie crosswise with half-closed eyes.

Where the warm winds from the desert would warm the bare bodies of the sleepers; Princes and Queens of repose.

Where the crystal water, running from the fountains in small waterfalls, would ricochet off the bluish mosaics and disturb torpid moments.

Where divine nights peopled by shooting stars in a navy blue sky, sequined with gold and silver, would display the planets Venus and Jupiter.

Where the music of The Orient would cradle our ears in charming sounds of flute and of violin.

Where Mozart, the Egyptian, would bewitch our senses by his music-loving muses.

Journey to the end of the earth, where imposing vessels divide the waters of the oceans, to finally find Aladin's land.

Nothing more than a Universe of torpor; of bliss and of sensual delight.

Positive Progress with a Plot Twist

I am pleased to report some positive progress. Someone called me on behalf of a lady who, just yesterday, was in ICU and looked so sick and miserable that I stayed just long enough to leave my card and wish her well. She had someone call today to see if I was coming back, and if so could I bring fruit or cookies or something so that she could eat when she was hungry. I love feeding people and was thrilled she was improving.
She had been moved to the Surgical Recovery Floor, which is where many of the accidental French patients are, so I took a big load of fruit and cookies, as well as a baguette and some cheese and some homemade vegetable soup for my special lady. I did ask the Doctor who was allowed to eat what and got the go-ahead for my new best friend to nibble at will. The Doctor took the tube out of her lung and told her she must get up and around, despite the pain from her broken ribs. Her husband is in Monterey, having been released from hospital today. He had a broken collar bone and is going to stay quiet for a day before facing the drive to reunite with his wife.
The lady with the missing arm was still their. She and her husband are confirmed on a flight out tomorrow. Their suitcase did turn up but their passports are missing or destroyed. They will get a special emergency pass to fly tomorrow. They are also looking better.

And so to the plot twist...

Once upon a time, in a Hypothetical Land, I was tricked and shafted by a sleazy businessman. I hired a lawyer (French, so my husband could understand what was going on), and he won our case and we were satisfied. So much so, that he was an invitee at our dinner party a while later and met husband's brother who had fractured his wrist when visiting our work-shop. Said brother-in-law (ironic term as you will see) was not only uninvited but I had specifically told him not to come.
Six months later, after aforementioned freeloading brother-in-law had been living with us, all expenses paid, we were served with a lawsuit. Our lawyer was now his lawyer and asking for a huge settlement.

The rest of the tale will come out another day. Suffice to say that when all my French crash-victim buddies showed me who had signed them up for the "Ambulance-Chasers' wet dream lawsuit" The name rang a big old bell!

I told them honestly, "I don't believe that man will ever go to heaven but he's the best of the bunch at what he does and he will get you the best possible settlement" (On a contingency basis, of course).

Call him Monsieur Shark