Have you "Saged" your House Today?

I started my morning with a visit to a client; always a good thing. (No clients, no eat). I had no trouble finding the house because I had worked for the previous owner twelve years ago, when the house was first built. In fact, I had dug up the archived file from 1998 to show as a talking point.
I am always on time, which in English terms means a few minutes early. My client did well, for one who combines the sensibilities of being an Interior Designer and a Californian, she was impressively punctual. During the five minutes that I waited at the gate another car pulled up and a smartly dressed woman came to say "Hello". She introduced herself as the one who was there to "Sage the House". Rather than play guessing games about whether that was a new way to describe being a painter who was going to cover the structure in sage colored paint, I admitted that I did not know what that meant. (She wasn't dressed like a painter, anyway).
It turned out that she was there to perform a cleansing, or blessing, per American-Indian Spiritual Traditions. I nodded "Sagely", as if I thought every Faux-Mediterranean piece of expensive California real estate, that just changed hands, should automatically be treated this way. Hey, I got through the Feng Shui era, I can survive Sageing.
Once in the gate, I got my samples out of my car. The challenge was to find some indoor-outdoor flooring to cover mud-room, laundry room and patios. It had to look awesome, appeal to my client's taste for authentic French stuff and be available right now in a large quantity, at a killer price. Welcome to my world!
I had the options of hand distressed French limestone pavers or a mix of terra-cotta tiles that were left over from a Polo-Ralph Lauren store that we had supplied in Texas a while ago. This client was a little more decisive than the Design Committee for the Polo job. They had required that I bring in samples from my supplier in the French Pyrenees and send them to a Design firm on Madison Avenue, New York and then wait a long time for the final go-ahead.
We perused my samples and discussed the visual weight of the colors in balance to the brown-red barrel tile roof. I was asked to imagine the new configuration of the outdoor areas. The columns were being removed, the patios were being torn up and re-shaped, the doors and windows had to go and all the interior tile was being replaced by 10" wide oak planks. Our Spiritual friend stuck with us, giving her opinion (I wonder if she charges extra for that?). Once I moved on to measuring the imaginary new spaces she asked to be excused to fulfill her mission.
I love the aroma of burnt sage. I use the herb often when cooking on the barbecue. Apparently "Sageing" a home consists of lighting a twig or two of sage and wafting them around in each room, muttering something I think was a prayer that the smoke alarm and sprinkler system not be activated.
I had my own prayers going on for some kind of order to be the result of our meeting. My client had a decided a preference for the terra-cotta tiles which was fine with me. They were bought and paid for long ago and just waiting to be turned into cash-flow. I could have given them away, if I felt so inclined.
My mercenary cunning knows no bounds. I always respond to cues from my clients. I can smell New-Age/Self-invented Spiritualism over the smoke from burning sage twigs.
It was not hard to mention that I felt a sense of "Destiny" with this house and would really get a kick out of participating in the making of a true home for this wonderful family. My dignity is easily overcome by the scent of 3,000 square feet of materials being sold.
There is to be another meeting tomorrow with Ms. Client, her contractor and Mr. Client, who is out of town working to pay for all this. I have given them until Monday close of business to accept or decline my special, sage-intoxicated price offer. I Googled his name so I am sure that if they want this they can afford it, I am not wasting my time.
If the deal does not go through, I will have learned a new (to me) tradition. I am currently wondering how much I can charge per room if I start my own Sageing business. Or maybe I'll start a fashion for Elephant-Dunging. I know where to go to get my supplies and I already have some pictures of myself with a very Spiritual Pachyderm named Butch that will be perfect for my ad-campaign.

Pipe Dreams & Reality Checks

The Artistic One does not live on the same planet as the rest of us. He inhabits a place (in his mind) where rules and plans are for sissies; where bank coffers automatically stretch and replenish to meet the demands of checks written and where traffic citations can be ignored with impunity, especially if you have lost the paperwork, so considerately supplied by the kind police officer, and not updated the address on your drivers' license that, "Oops!" you can't find anyway. (That will be a post for another day; mandatory "one-on-one" time with a traffic court Judge and French translator, July 17th).
A declaration, made as a New Year's Resolution, that "This year, we will close up our business for a month and spend the whole month of July in Europe" seemed far-fetched at the time; Clients were not knocking down our doors to place orders; the phone was ringing with reminder calls from those nice folks at the finance, credit card and utility companies and an over-abundance of rainfall was paralyzing the construction projects of our industry, already mired in the general economic morass. 
Not seeing any value in being the Killer of Dreams at that time, I embraced the idea with a few "If everything goes our way" and "I hope we can afford that" disclaimers. I even spoke to the dog-sitter and had her pencil in the time slot, just in case of a miracle.
Well... Here we are...June already. How time flies when you are having fun! On the plus side, we are still standing. There's even some positively hopeful energy in the air as far as work is concerned. (We have three Venture Capitalists in our client portfolio; one High Tech and two Medical and Green Energy crossovers). The big boys are getting their confidence back.
In addition, some of Hubby's paintings have been selling through the gallery on the East Coast. Checks are slow in trickling in from that source and there is much whining and attempts to get the gallery percentage to increase above the negotiated 50%. "Paint it yourself!" is the answer to that one.
Hubby has been invited to show some canvases in Paris again in September; in the exhibition space under the pyramid in front of The Louvre. The exhibit is called "Grand Masters of Tomorrow" and there will be no living with the Ego now, but it did give me a reasonable and non-confrontational excuse to broach the possibility that it might be better to postpone our (Imaginary) trip until September and take care of everything at once.
This time, I actually believe that it might happen, although maybe three weeks rather than a month is more likely. The dog-sitter is booked up for other canines on the new dates so I have to find a solution for my girl Diva who is too old and fragile to go to the kennels. Tickets will cost a chunk less then and a large number of those nice tourists and their children will have their noses in their school books or back to the grindstone.
We are not yet surfing the waves but we have progressed from drowning in a stormy sea to doggy paddling towards a distant, but visible shoreline.

The Recession is My Fault!

My life and work are co-mingled and hard to divide. Although I mostly keep work related stuff separate from my blog, sometimes it is relevant. My husband and I share our business and are immersed in the same milieu day and night. Unfortunately, that means when one of us has problems with work, clients etc. we both share the same worries and we don't always agree on a course of action to resolve the problems. I often hear "Whose side are you on?" the reply is usually, "The Client's".
Throw into the mix that I am still acting as translator for hubby, who has tried and failed to learn fluent English in the 25 years we have been here, and the term "Don't kill the messenger" takes on personal meaning. Often, as I try to clarify the nuances of some issue or other from a client's point of view, I am faced with the angry response that is not mine to own.
Everyone has been affected in some way by this economy. We have been lucky to have a safety net, in the form of a small inheritance from my parents. I have been able to bridge the gap; eking out my personal funds in small increments; trying to save enough to keep my dreams alive, but doing what is necessary for our stability and to help a friend not lose her house.
Things are definitely on the road to recovery. I think that by the springtime we will be bathed in the light that is currently peeking in at the end of the tunnel. It doesn't make it any easier to swallow the bitter pill that I have willingly surrendered my dreams for the greater good and all the thanks I get is to be told, " I don't know why you did that" "All you had to do was work harder, sign more clients and make more of our business, etc...."
It shouldn't get to me, I've surely heard it before. I know there will be no pony under the tree. But it still feels like a dagger to the heart. Every day I get up and do the best I know how. Win or lose, at the end of the day, I know I have given my all and that, as the sun rises tomorrow, I will stand up and do it all over again.

My Artisan

Man, impatient with Human races, coaxing
faces,
Grinning out of rock.
Not for him bright conversation, his
language
Fluent, from his hands
His microphone a chisel, his audience a
stone.
Stranger in a world of communication
My Artisan.

Walk in someone else's shoes.

This morning was fabulous; a bit of a break in the heat due to thunder and a few splish-splash drops plink, plinking on the metal cover of the barbecue, on the deck outside the open door and windows to our bedroom, during the night. A varied sky making me smile as I did the first relay of dog-walks around 7:30 am. Not too early, but it is Saturday and quiet. The low sun beaming through miscellaneous clouds, creating unrealistic cartoon-rays, dividing the heavens in segments of pale gold, puffy white and under-lit lilac.

A quick power-walk around the block to relieve the foster-dogs before feeding them, grabbing a quick cup of coffee, then the exercise walk in earnest. Fitting in a stroll with old Diva between the others; strategically exiting the house whilst the demanding orphans are eating; as quiet as mice so that the tantrum howling of "those who want to go everywhere with me" does not start and alienate my neighbors.

The air feeling cool, compared to the previous days, but still pleasant to be sleeveless. Persimmons half eaten by deer in the night, left scattered on the sidewalk. Heavy fruit-laden branches supported by wooden props. Naked twigs where the lower leaves usually make me duck to pass beneath. The fruit are barely starting to glow with ripeness; more green than orange. I wonder if deer have lips that pucker after tasting unripe persimmons.

A few starlings cluster and whistle, a sign of seasonal migrations. The Japanese Maples have a few leaves changing color. It is almost offensive. It feels too early to be reminded of summer's end.

I have time for a real walk with "those who will one day be adopted". We are working on our manners; not trying to kill all cyclists, squirrels and skate boarders. A few reminders are necessary in the excited rush and swirl of our launch from home. Our walk takes us through residential streets without sidewalks. There are a mixture of older homes and a few McMansions. A bungalow with a pot bellied pig in the yard next to something similar to the home of The Adams Family. There are always a couple of American flags. Today is September 12th, there are more than usual.

Our path takes us down a steep hill, with more momentum than is comfortable for my knees until we hit bottom and start up the other side. Across a wooden footpath, pedestrian bridge, past the golf club-house and uphill some more until we crest above the newly renovated and re-opened Blackberry Farm, which will take us via woodland trail and stream-side valley back through the trees to the base of the final climb home; a choice of eighty-five steps or a forty five degree incline loop of winding sidewalk.

On the way we say hello to a league of nations cross section of our community. These dogs really seem to appeal to my Asian neighbors; even those older walkers who have limited English, smile and pronounce "Beautiful" as best they can. A few younger people raise their phones and snap pictures as we flounce by in a red-carpet paparazzi flurry of proudly elegant collie profiles and contrasting black, tan and white fur. The banner tails curve up and over their backs adding drama to the prancing, high-stepping paws. Diamonds would not be out of place.

Back home, satisfied, the morning continues productively and I am in a good mood as Hubby and I sit to lunch. I mention how much I enjoyed my walk and that, even dog-less, I plan to continue nurturing my need in the future.

Hubby's response is to launch on a description of how torturous he found it, as a child away at summer camp, that people would expect him to go on hikes. "Not even on paved pathways!" he exclaimed, in defence of his, then, nine year old recalcitrance. "On uneven, sometimes hilly goat tracks". "Oh my God! When you walk you move slowly and are forced to look at the same tree for much too long!" "You see it in the distance. You see it approaching slowly, and it takes forever, with no change of scenery, to get past that tree!" Hubby's solution, on the second day of summer camp, was to volunteer to peel vegetables in preparation for returning lunch-time campers. Sitting peacefully in the kitchen without a darn tree in sight.

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.

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.

California Whine Country

Dear Client,
As I drove in to work this morning, at the corner where the service and suppliers' roads must briefly intersect with the roads leading to and from the homes of the elite, I was sorry to see that the fender-bender causing the slow-down was you. You looked so forlorn at the side of your (slightly dented) Maserati, cell phone pressed to your precious ear. Only a few hundred yards from home and yet in a strange land.
The Tesla Roadster in the next lane, (only a smidgen over $100,000 and so cheap to run), was blocking me from your view or I would have waved. I do hope your day got better after that.
I recall first meeting you. You were so important and busy that, of course, I met with you on July Fourth. How frustrating for you, as a foreigner, to be faced with your company's employees lack of enthusiasm for working on Independence Day.
We met at your newly purchased estate. What a long driveway through the gardens and up to the house? Imagine someone selling a house for over $13,000,000 and yet you need to redo the kitchen, bathrooms and fireplaces before it is habitable? All that subtle wood-work will take weeks to lacquer over to a high gloss and all the slab work must be replaced by something shiny too. What were they thinking?
Our first meeting seemed to bode well. You admired the photos in my portfolio and I explained the choices and how each would affect the price. Each time you selected more detailed carvings and more expensive materials, but I felt that you must have understood my explanations and would know what to expect. I spent that whole weekend drawing plans and writing up my proposal, sure we were in harmony and yearning for a signed contract.
You were impressed that I was ready to meet you again on Sunday and had me drive to your original home to present my work. The Maserati was in the forecourt and a Range Rover, but that turned out to be the nanny's car and we had to wait for your wife, who had forgotten about our appointment. The kids were swarming excitedly around the luggage that was being prepared for the trip to Europe and India, departing later that evening. Madame did show up after a while but I'm not sure how involved she really was as she ate a bowl of cereal, whilst standing at the kitchen counter.
Gosh, it took a while to go through all my drawings. I noted your decisions and tallied up your choices. I still don't quite understand how I am to be considered wholly responsible for blowing your budget. I wish you had mentioned your budget needs when we first met, (when I was clarifying how much your choices would cost). It would have saved me a lot of work and I could have had a long weekend like everyone else.
And so this charming reminiscence might end, if I were a quitter, but I am not. I am happy and proud that we worked out a solution to reduce some of the elaborate details, include some indispensable details free of charge and reduce the price as well. Oh, Happy Day! Signing you up for one hand carved marble fireplace was better than none. We'd see about the second one after your trip. Oh, you had forgotten to mention until now that this was a rush job too. O.K. then.
How quaint? No need to show me out. The local customs are different here, we generally do not dismiss visitors and expect them to wander off and find the front door by themselves. I managed though, no worries.
I really appreciated that you emailed me from France with photos of the fireplace that you wanted to buy from someone else so that I could verify the dimensions for you. One would hate it not to fit!
What a great decision to buy it and then ship it by air to save time. The airlines are so reasonable about shipping 1,500lbs of stone. I am sure you told them about your budget. No, no, you weren't my first client to airship stone. I had a lady who shipped 10 tons of pavers to finish her front porch in time for Halloween. Can't have those little Imps and Jack'o'Lanterns tripping up as they Trick or Treat now, can we?
Did I mention that she also had problems with customs clearance, most similar to yours. What a riot, paying all that to ship by air and then waiting, knowing your loot is on a back lot at Kennedy Airport for a couple of weeks. Life is droll, is it not?
Anyhow, seeing you at the roadside this morning brought back all those wonderful memories. You are just the kind of client who inspires one to write a blog.
Bye for now.

Dandelion is to weeds what Coreopsis is to flowers

As I pat myself on the back that my lawn is now bright green and dandelion-free, I spy with the corner of my eye something bold and yellow and proud that has appeared in the lee of one of my "official plantings" on the hillside below. There is never only one solitary dandelion. As I sit in the shade, resting from my hard morning's weeding, I do enjoy the splash of vibrant color cheekily peeking out of the shade. He can stay for the day, this sentinel of hidden armies, but then I will resume the rout. He will fall on the battlefield and the war will be won, (for today).

I question myself because I have spent time this weekend adding more coreopsis to my landscape. Reliable, sturdy, bright yellow flowers; admitedly bushier and more important than Dandelion but so close in nature and effect.

Sunshine on my Shoulders Makes me Happy

This was all set to be a post about my satisfying weekend in the garden but my Sister sent me an email which made me smile even more and I thought I'd share some of her instead:
...It has taken me this long to look at my email (1 month). I'm sorry but I'd just prefer to pretend the 21st Century isn't really happening and that one day we will all go back to grunting and keeping sheep. (Actually most men I know are half way there already).
Today is Easter Sunday and I am on my own as the boys are in France skiing, so I have been roped in to go to Catherine's Art Exhibition in St. Just and then to have dinner with Rosie. She's the young woman with whom I share Megan, the eternally lame horse. Megan is on her third month of box rest with walking out leading only.
This combined with Danny the Disappearing Fucking Greyhound, means that I have been walking five to ten miles a bloody day and now feel as though I have splints coming!
I think I may take up knitting.

AIG - Are They Hiring?

Does anyone know if AIG is hiring? They have my dream job; screw up all day long and then collect your bonus!
I am struggling along with a really small business. We seem to struggle even when no-one else is, so we are maybe better equiped to get through all this gloom and doom. No great changes, just more of the same.
My one employee has a weekly bonus of $1 per hour worked, which is tied to him showing up on time and NOT screwing up in any truly unacceptable way. Once or twice a year he needs reminding that his bonus is vulnerable. This has worked with him and others over a number of years.
I am obviously out of synch with the methods of corporate America. Same planet, different Worlds!

Happy, Hopping Penises - Stocking Stuffers Cause International Incident!

When I met my husband (to be) he had been divorced for 5 years. He and his ex had four, very attractive off-spring; two boys and two girls; youngest seventeen-oldest twenty-two. I was also twenty-two, although eldest daughter was and always will be four days older than me. We will both be fifty this month and she is visiting with her sister's teenage son in tow. Some long buried stories have arisen afresh.
Hubby and I moved to California in late 1985 with our 7 month old daughter (number 5 for him). By then we had all known one another for half a decade.
I enjoy(ed?) Christmas and giving gifts. My English family always put goofy, fun gifts in stockings under the tree, in addition to "real" presents.
Our first Christmas away, I wanted to be sure hubby's French progeny did not feel forgotten. I carefully selected angora sweaters for the girls and tooled leather belts for the boys. I shipped them Fedex as it was a bit last minute. Those gifts never arrived. It took months to find out that the Fedex plane had crashed and burned. Who else has these problems?
By then the French contingent were all in an uproar at me anyhow, and never likely to be included on any Christmas list of mine ever again, no way, no how!
On a Saturday outing to Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco hubby and I had wandered into a joke shop, house of humor. We had spent a light-hearted half hour chuckling at the merchandise and I had found some gifts for his sons and daughters that I thought were irresistible.
Who doesn't think that chewing gum that turns your mouth black is funny? Who can keep a straight face when a couple of three inch tall clockwork penises, with feet, are wound up and released to hop happily across the table?
Apparently these gifts were opened at a Christmas Eve dinner party at the Ex's house. They were the only thing that had arrived and were taken to be symbolic of disdain for two (gorgeous) young women who had both worked as Dental Assistants, and who were over twenty-five, unmarried, and so might be considered Old Maids. I wish I were that devious!
There was an outraged international phone call with much shrieking and wailing, not to mention blame and condemnation. Some were less offended than others. I was sent a photo of my two step-daughters totally engrossed, watching their two new wind-up toys bounce across the table top. I still think it was funny.
Last night the story received an addendum, Chantal still has her happy, hopping penis some twenty years later. She sometimes uses it to break the ice at her parties.