As if leaving weren't stressful enough....

Here's a photo of some recent "transformations" to my lawn, thanks to the raccoons. I know they found some yummy grubs and earthworms because they dropped some in the jacuzzi, whilst washing off their dinner.
I really don't have time to blog but I need a quick break from all the unexpected problems that needed solving before we fly to France tomorrow. 
I worked a very full day on Saturday. I got home to a familiar refrain of "I can't find my wallet".
The Artistic One doesn't usually get too worried and I've heard the song so many times, I just let him walk around saying "I've looked everywhere". This is not true and wallets usually reappear after a few days, in a drawer, under the bed or fallen from pants pocket into a shoe in the closet.
His searching and complaining was of a more theatrical nature than usual. After a while, he told me he had received a mysterious call from a bank. He hadn't completely understood and the caller had gone in search of an interpreter and disconnected in the meantime.
By the time I was apprised of this little gem, it was late on Saturday and no one answered the number we called back. I got online to look at recent bank-activity and, sure enough, the lucky thief who found all the necessary PIN's with the cards in the wallet, had been on a bit of a spree and made several withdrawals from each account.
Two hours of phoning banks, cancelling cards and giving statements ensued. All's well. The money is restored and I can do the rest of the affidavits when we return. TOA still has plastic to play with on our travels and he still has both passports. It could have been worse.
Thank goodness I had a horse to ride yesterday. Chief was a star. He's learning about circles and cantering on the correct lead. You can see him trying his best to get the footwork right over two ground-poles in a row. His ears are forward and his brain is steaming along. This is a horse with a very willing and completely honest nature. If I give precise aids, that we've previously learned, he does his job. It all came together on Sunday which was very rewarding. Given the choice, I'd stay here and ride Chief every day. 

Ready, set...reschedule!

We have been trying to get to France all year. In the spring, we rescheduled due to TAO's pulmonary embolism. The new tickets were to be used last week, with TAO leaving a few days ahead of me and us reuniting when he was done with driving up, down and cross-wise all over France.
I was going to spend a day or two near Toulouse, reacquainting with an English woman, whose father worked together with mine long ago. Our parents became friends and we used to see each other from time to time, as kids, even after we moved away. When my Mum died, I took on her address book and continued the tradition of exchanging Christmas cards, with people all over the world.
Little by little, there are few remaining. Now my Dad's old friend's wife has "gone ahead" and he has Alzheimer's. Sadly, that's one more thing our families have in common. I still send him cards and have struck up correspondence with his daughter. 
Julie didn't live in France when I was there, so we haven't seen one another since we established our "grown-up" lives. We were looking forward to spending some time chatting and reminiscing together. Unfortunately, our new travel dates coincide with the moving company that is to pack up her belongings and move them back to England, where her husband is working at a new job. I'll have a new plan in place to connect with her in the U.K. next year.
Last week, we had a send-off lunch for TAO's granddaughter who has spent the summer with an American family nearby. We invited other family members, friends and the couple who hosted Liza. I chose to have our party on a Sunday, at lunchtime, planning that the youngest family members would leave us the heck alone, enjoy playing in the pool. I forgot that this meant I wouldn't be able to ride at my usual Sunday time. I still can't believe I did that!
The next morning I had reserved two horses for Liza and my Lovelydaughter to take a trail ride in the hills. LD called to say her car was blocked in by her roommate's vehicle, that wouldn't start, so I donned my boots for a Western style ride. The view of San Francisco Bay from the back of a beautiful, long-maned Mustang named Sally; strolling along the oak-studded ridge, is a perspective few tourists get to experience. It wasn't my original plan for the morning but I'm glad I did it. Back at the barn, which also doubles as a vineyard, I bought Liza a souvenir T-shirt, which carries the image of the farm's livestock brand, very rustic and tastefully done. I returned Liza to her host family and finished the monster clean-up that always follows a party.
TAO had the tail end of a cold. By Tuesday, he was still coughing a bit and wheezing at night. He finished up the dregs of a prescription cough medicine that he'd had since 2009. When I emailed his doctor to renew his prescription she said she'd have to see him in person. Age, lungs, wheezing being serious factors. I had sort of expected that answer. Better safe than sorry, especially before a long journey.
The architects who design Hospitals, Airports and other large public buildings think that a disabled drop-off area and an access ramp for wheelchairs is sufficient. It actually does work for those in wheel-chairs. However, so many people are in the category of walking-wounded; in pain, or just not able to walk with ease, that 100 yards/meters looks like 100 miles to them and then, when they struggle to wherever they're going, they have to STAND in line to register.
TAO signed in then had to walk down long corridors to the furthest  station, which was his doctor's. She is great. She listens, asks questions, knows past history. I always go with to translate. The doctor heard some reduced lung function on one side and sent us off to X-Ray. More walking, back the way we came and then over to the main hospital building. Hurrying a bit in the hope of getting back to hear the results before the doctor's lunch break.
We didn't even have to wait five minutes until being ushered in by a technician. Friendly, professional, considerate...we don't take this for granted. We are always praising Kaiser, our HMO. Back to our MD. By the time we walked back to her office, a radiologist had read the images, shared them onto her computer screen and discussed a treatment plan, taking into consideration the what-ifs of a trip to France the next day.
TAO came away with a cortisone vaporizer/inhaler to use twice daily, as a month long treatment to heal his lungs. He has an emergency inhaler, just in case of sudden shortness of breath. There's a course of antibiotics that he can start taking if he gets a fever or other symptoms and a repeat of the cough syrup, in case the cough returns. We sat at home and put each item in a sealed plastic bag with a note to remind TAO what each was for. He started the lung treatment and was good to go the next day.
I heard a saying "People plan and God laughs". That's a very true thought. By the end of the following morning, TAO had serious pain in his back and side and was calling off his trip; Laying in bed rather than driving to the airport for his flight out. We spoke to an advice nurse on the phone and she asked all the questions to establish we didn't have a life threatening emergency, but something that needed to be checked out. We decided to wait until the next day, to see our usual physician. This time I pulled up in front of the hospital and commandeered a wheelchair. After parking a ways away, and hurrying back over, naturally TAO was not where I'd left him. He'd wheeled himself inside the wrong building, so a short search ensued.
Once corralled and trundled over to the right office, the Doc. checked him out...AGAIN! Recurrence of osteoarthritis pain in spine, probably provoked by the prior visit's hiking all over the place. It's been a year and a half since the epidural that made such an improvement in TAO's life. He's been diligent about the exercises he was given to strengthen his core muscles. He does them every day, but he's just simply overdone the walking and the unevenness of his gait has caused a reaction.
We're always pleased when a diagnosis is not something from which one might die, as we've had a sprinkling of those over time. Unfortunately, TAO can no longer take any anti-inflammatory meds, which would be the normal solution. Bed-rest and alternating applications of hot and cold, is old-fashioned and tedious, but at least a possible path to recovery. The plan was to wait and see, for at least four or five days and progress to a course of Prednisone, as the next step, if needed. We discussed planning for another epidural, just to know all our options, and our doctor put in a request for that specialist to give us a call. Everything is so much more complicated now that TAO is on blood-thinners for life. It turns out we'd have to switch him from his Coumadin pills, back to the twice daily shots of Lovanox, which I learned to inject into his stomach, but neither of us were very happy about. Then we'd stop the Lovanox to create a brief window of opportunity in between the risk of excessive bleeding and the alternative of blood clots, either of which could kill him and increase the risk of paralysis.
Thankfully, there's been slow but steady improvement. TAO is newly full of vim and vigor after snoozing through the better part of a week, and he's seen the wisdom of taking things slowly and carefully.

Our tickets are re-booked for later this month. TAO is no longer traveling solo. I am committed to making all future plans inclusive of both of us. I need to wrangle this one in person from now on. I plan on requesting assistance at the airport, which worked well when we flew to St Martins at Christmastime.
Our extra time permitted me to take on a temporary rescue of a 10 year old dog whose owner had to go into a nursing home. Kato also has arthritis and had a visit to the vet. He's overweight and had very long nails. His owner loved him but couldn't go out for walks and fed Kato people-food. At 72 lbs, (about 15 lbs more than he should be for his frame) I had a hard time lifting him into my car and even getting him out was a struggle for both of us. I asked for help whenever I could and was as careful as possible not to mess up my shoulder again. Thank goodness my car is quite low to the ground.
Kato was picked up yesterday by my Collie Rescue Area Coordinator who had been out of town when the call came in that Kato was being relinquished. Lauren's SUV was dauntingly high, but luckily the guys who work for me have grown to love the dogs I bring to the office. Strong arms scooped Kato up and hoisted him onto the back seat. He's a happy passenger, lying quietly on long trips, popping up to look out the window if we slow down. I've caught people smiling and waving at him in morning traffic. Kato is old and creaky but he has charisma, not unlike some humans I could mention:)

Yes. Thanks for asking:)

I rarely covet jewelry. This necklace, in silver and gold, spoke to me from the window of a little shop called "Pebbles". The casual mixture of gold and silver; some shiny smooth; some hammered to the  pewter-glinting texture of a winter sea, drew me in off the street. I even tried it on.

Hydrangea Horde look as though they're making a run for it, don't they?

Five-thirty a.m. after a reasonably restful night in my sleeper cabin; waking to a tray of tea and a croissant, served as I sat in my bunk. Time to get going to catch my flight back to the U.S. after a lightening trip to the U.K. for my Aunt Norma's funeral. 

I ventured out onto the still-quiet Paddington Station platform, guarded by a bronze bear in a big floppy hat.

"Good morning, gentlemen. Would you happen to know the whereabouts of the Heathrow Express?" 

"Why, yes. Thanks for asking" was the sunny reply, from a naughty middle-aged station guard, with a big cheeky smile on his face.

I love England!

We packed our suitcases and left our baggage behind

White Christmas trees line the beach.

We woke to quiet on New Year's morning. Home, after ten days of noisy toads outside our window at night and bustling, chirping, sugar finches all day. Friends, from The Artistic One's past, had been inviting us to visit on St Martin's Island, since they moved there in 2004.

This is the view from their property, at the top of the hill.

Half French, half Dutch, the island is a cruise ship port of call and has the main international airport you'd fly through on your way to St Barthes or Anguilla. It really does have white sandy beaches and warm turquoise waters with coconut palms swaying in the sea breezes.

We were not sure that we would get there and even less sure we'd get home to California. When I went to check in online, the morning of our departure, TAO handed me his French passport. In his mind, he was off to France and that was all he needed, with no thought to the return journey and getting through customs and immigration in the US.

 Insouciant Mer-Man

What should have been a simple step of pulling his blue passport out of his passport file, turned into a major search, which was unproductive. Coat pockets turned inside out, unzipping every compartment in all the suitcases in the garage and, finally, heading out hours earlier than planned to see if the missing passport was at the office for some reason. Niet, Nada, Nichs!
I keep photocopies of TAO's documents, for obvious reasons. I was able to use his passport number to check in and print boarding passes. SFO has a self-serve scanner at check-in and the young woman who looked at our passports was comparing photos to passengers, not passport numbers to boarding passes, so we slipped through O.K.
Landing In St Maartens with an EU passport was not a problem and we were met by warm air and smiling old/new friends. After a shower and change we went to the supermarket together, as it was Christmas Eve and provisions must be gathered. There was no doubt that we were in a French community, except the fresh produce was virtually non-existent. Not a salad to be had.

The veggies come in from France but won't land at the international airport, as it's on the Dutch side of the island and there must be some taxes or some other deterent. The goods are flown to French Guyana and transferred to a smaller plane that flies in weekly to the local landing strip.  The cauliflowers on display had brown spots and were definitely worse for wear.
After the first few days we discovered that the Dutch markets had lovely fresh produce and we kept making forays to supplement our local diet of Foie-Gras and sugary rum drinks, to keep scurvy at bay. Our hosts told us that they once went to the Dutch produce store but no one spoke French so they don't like it.

Yachts being spruced up for incoming owners.

We went from table to beach, to table, to pool, to table. We had some of the best rose wines, no matter where we were.

YoYo, the iguana, made a surprise appearance by the pool.

Not exactly dressage, but a once in a lifetime moment, nonetheless.

Lovely daughter and I had a private guided ride. We cantered along the sandy beach paths and experienced the joy that these horses have in going into the ocean. They really wanted to go deeper and swim. 

When it was time to head back to the US, we were prepared to leave TAO behind, if he wasn't allowed on the plane. We managed a smooth departure but were a bit apprehensive about  what might lie ahead.

Customs and Immigration in Charlotte, NC, as 2012's last few hours trickled down. Surges of humanity, all with somewhere to be, other than at the airport. A customs agent who took our party of three in turn. 

I remember a song from Sesame Street, "One of these things is not like the other ones. One of these things just doesn't belong", that was how our passports looked; two blue and one burgundy. We were in the US resident queue. Eyebrows were raised. "He is a US citizen" I said. "He just doesn't know where his passport is". "We have a photocopy and his original citizenship certificate. Will that do?" The agent checked in his computer and TAO must have been in there without too many red flags. He considered a moment and let us through. I thanked him heartily and let him know I was aware he could have made our passage much more difficult.

Safely back home in California in the small hours of the first morning of 2013, greeted by temperatures close to freezing. We were as disoriented as if we'd been away for months. 

St Martins is our new favorite destination. We'd go back in a heart-beat.

London's Horses

 "Still Water", bronze by sculptor Nic Fiddian Green
Inspired by his chestnut hunter, George

The Animals in War Memorial

Far right, below: "They had no choice"

It reads: Many and various animals were employed to support British and Allied Forces in wars and campaigns over the centuries and as a result millions died. From the pigeon to the elephant they all played a vital role in every region of the world in the cause of human freedom. 

Their contribution must never be forgotten.

The building of this monument was made possible by generous public donations.

Three police horses taking a water break, Hyde Park.

Riders along the banks of The Serpentine, Hyde Park

 The amazingly believable cast of Warhorse

My trip to back to the U.K. in September included a brief stay in London, which revolved around tickets to see WarHorse on the stage. The daylight hours were spent walking in, and around, Hyde Park, as I visited The Animals in War memorial and came upon the beautiful bronze of a horse at water nearby.

Letters in the Sand...

In the latter portion of my Franco-British tour of friends and relatives; having unpacked my suitcase for the 5th, and penultimate, time in a fortnight; I find the familiar guest bedroom in the open-plan house of Chantal and Olivier, who qualify as both friends and family.
When I first met Chantal three decades ago in Southern France, I was her father's English girlfriend. Now, she introduces me, with a smile, as her step-mother. Last March, her 53rd birthday preceded mine by four days and her subsequent birthdays will continue to do so. The official description of our relationship matters little. We have a mountain of shared interests and memories in common.

The house is set into a gentle rise and the floor to ceiling windows look out over the tops of two thousand olive trees, past the grape vines below and onward to the large purple smudge of the Island of Porquerolle, just beyond a blue slice of Mediterranean.
The sliding glass doors are left open day and night at this time of year, which is why a rope barrier has been looped across the the accessible edges of the big wooden deck, to keep Pegase (Pegasus), the 36 year old bay horse, out of the house.

When we sit to chat or dine at the big teak table on the deck, Pegase keeps us company, his big rustic head nodding to dislodge any annoying flies that his long swishing tail fails to sweep away. The rest of the time Pegase can be found snoozing beneath the shaded overhang down by the olive mill, or persistently bumping the branches of the fig tree until the soft plop of a ripe fruit hitting the ground sends him bee-lining over to snuffle around and claim his prize.
After lunch and story-swapping for a while, I asked if Chantal wanted to go for a walk. She suggested a hike along the coastal path which sounded good to me. There are numerous little bays and coves around this part of the Mediterranean. Small beaches, with patches of sand or round, wave-smoothed pebbles. These inlets provide tranquil moorings for small boats and inviting, warm end of season water for sun-worshippers unfettered by school age children.

Some effort is required as there are uphill portions of the trail and even downhill it's wise to concentrate as there are tree roots and uneven wooden steps and much of the path is single file between shrubby undergrowth and only wide enough for a goat.

A hazy afternoon light isn't the best but it's impossible to resist some blatant photo-ops. As we clambered down to the next little beach, a couple with a serious piece of camera equipment are discussing his next frame. I offer to include both of them in a souvenir shot and they are pleased to accept. He quickly whips out a small point and click digital that I cannot harm and I snap the two of them by the water's edge, with the private island-fortress of Bregancon behind them. Summer retreat of French Presidents, the chateau on the island is visible from shore.
Monsieur Photographer reciprocates with pictures using my camera. His, unlike mine, show deliberate composition.

As we continue up and over one more time my phone rings. "You'll never guess what just happened to me" is a familiar harbinger of trouble from The Artistic One, whom I have left to fend for himself in California. "My car was just stolen out of the driveway. I saw it go by the window while I was having breakfast, a few minutes ago."
7 am California time and I'm at least an hour's walk away from anything. How to find the number of the local Sheriff's Department back home? I try dialing 411, the information line, with the international prefix for the USA but that doesn't work. I tried Lovely Daughter and a couple of friends but it's too early. No one is answering their phones. Finally we call Olivier and he gets a number from his computer. Chantal scratches it onto a rock with a pebble and I dial. The recorder message says business hours don't start for another hour and gives a number to call for immediate help. I give Chantal some digits to memorize and try to retain the rest. When I finally get through to a Deputy to make a report, Chantal wanders away, strips down and takes a swim.  I'm standing by the edge of the path, afraid to move and lose my connection. It feels very inappropriate to be talking on the phone amid such serenity.

I start by explaining the complicating factor that I'm calling from Europe as my husband speaks French. I am able to describe the vehicle year, make and color and give the name of our insurance agent and the home address so that someone can go out and take a statement from the victim.  We don't have the license number, without accessing the files in my office or until I can get hold of my insurer, as soon as his day starts. I promise to call back with that information.
TAO is calling again. He's found a photo of his car that shows his license plate. He rattles off letters and numbers. Whoa there! I have nothing to write with, which he seems not to comprehend in his excitement. This beach is all pebbles. I use my finger to scribe the information but it's barely legible as the little rocks roll down and quickly blur the outlines. Chantal, who is done swimming and has dried in the sun and redressed, comes back over to help and once again, I call the Sheriff's Dept. This time I connect with a female dispatcher who doesn't appreciate that I don't have my full case number at hand and she keeps stopping me to complain about the background noises. I do my best not to lose patience as I repeatedly explain that I'm inches away from the waves, which are not only noisy, but every ripple threatens to erase the information I need to impart.
TAO is on the line once more, asking me to call an employee to collect him and get him to our place of business. I first remind him he's supposed to wait for someone to take his report and then start racking my brain for a source who might help me find the phone number I need. Funnily enough, I don't have any employee files with me here.
I leave a message with one person who's number I have, who has borrowed a helper from us once or twice. I ask him to text me when he gets my call. Finally, I think of a neighboring fork-lift repair business, whose number I know by heart and who start work early. They immediately promise to go over and pass along the message that TAO needs rescuing. I'm glad that I've bought them chocolate cakes a couple of times as I try hard never to exceed the goodwill quota of neighborliness.

Why are you in Glasgow?

Why are you in Glasgow? Was the question from husband, when I called home last evening. I've been talking about this trip, in detail, for weeks. I left him with an itinerary of everything I plan to do on this whilst I'm in Europe. Meeting up with my deceased father's sister, whom I have not seen in 25 years, was a pretty big deal. Somehow he missed that:)
I had suggested that I take my Aunt Nessie out for Sunday afternoon tea. My cousins and their spouses got enthusiastically involved, and caught trains in from all over Scotland, and we ended up with a very nice and noisy family lunch. The 85 year old matriarch would not hear of anyone else handling the bill. She's known as Hell's Granny, I was told.
I'll get some flowers and a thank you note off to her from Cornwall tomorrow.
The photo wants to be sideways. Who knows how it will post?

The Logistics are Killing Me

Now that my, previously simple, plans to spend two weeks in England, hanging out with my sister, have changed, I've been spending hours plotting and planning in my head and trying out different itineraries on a variety of online sites.
I have drawn out a calendar of my dates and I have small post-it notes with individual items written on them so that I can move them around and decide how best to use my time. I've already thinned the herd and tossed out some things that just won't fit.
I still intend to visit Penzance, in Cornwall. That and Falmouth, a mere forty miles away, yet on a different coast, are where I'm from; they're the main anchors to my childhood memories. Both are down at England's tippy-toe, inconvenient as all get-out. It's probably why they've kept their identities and are relatively unspoiled.
I'll arrive in London, jet-lagged but happy that I have a hotel room rather than an onward journey by bus and train that would last another ten hours. The one saving grace of the long trek south west to Penzance is that one can fall asleep without fear of missing one's station. Penzance is as far as it goes. When the train slides into it's berth, the seagulls scream and whirl, and the air is fresh off Mounts Bay. As much as I relate to that symbolic, homecoming, assault on the senses, it is so often accompanied by the gritty, sand beneath the eyelids feeling, that has nothing to do with a party at the beach, that I am doing things differently this time.
I will spend a couple of nights in London, see Warhorse as planned, with or without familiar faces in the two seats next to me and visit the things that interest me for a day or two before stepping onto the train, northbound this time, for Glasgow. I am taking my Aunt Nessie (my Dad's sister) out to Sunday afternoon tea and there are some cousins who are making the effort to join us.
My childhood and youth were full of cringe-responses every time someone stated how much I resembled my Father. Much as I loved him, I was mistaken for a boy enough times that my Mother had my baby hair gathered up like a little whale's spout on top of my head in all my photos. On this trip, if it brings Aunt Nessie pleasure to see her brother's likeness in me, I can live with that.
The next day I'll be airport bound to take a flight down to Bristol and rent a car for the drive down to Cornwall. A, now unaccustomed, stick-shift on the left hand side of the road is much more approachable without a sleep-deprivation factor. It shouldn't take more than three hours to reach Penzance this way. I'll be staying with a friend's Mother. Our families have been interchangeably connected for so long, it's a good solution to my aborted stay with my sister.
I had been really looking forward to riding every day in England. I helped the owner of the barn where my sister rides and boards her horse, at my sister's request, when she came to San Francisco and was desperately disappointed that Alcatraz tickets were sold out. I contacted the concierge of a large Hotel and found a back-door solution for her. and her family. I know that I could call or email her and connect for some horse-time. I can predict the potential fireworks that may result from my sister at this perceived encroachment. I'm still pondering what to do there.
I'll have a few family-like days with Lucie. Even her daughter, my peer, has always called her mother by her given name and Lucie is the only person I've ever met at San Francisco airport who was carrying a home-made Sacher-torte, which we had with champagne immediately upon arriving home. There will be shared memories and gossip for sure.
I just wrestled with the next phase of my plan. I've booked a hotel room in Falmouth, overlooking the beach where I learned to swim. Three of my Mother's sisters are still alive. I'll meet them for lunch and go for long walks around familiar sights. My grandfather's house, atop beacon Hill, where I was born and where, up until now, the light-blue and white color scheme has remained, despite many years under new ownership. The view from outside, much like that from the kitchen window, across the tidal estuary and down to the docks where he worked and was Choirmaster for the traditional male voice choir.
Rain or shine, I'll walk around Castle Drive in the early morning and take the cliff path across to Swan-pool Beach. If the guest house doesn't have great coffee, I know just the place. There's only one tea-room that's open early enough for me. It's been four years since I was there last. It better still be there. I'm not too worried. These are not places that change much.
Back to Bristol and a flight to Paris. I only have two hours on a Sunday evening, to change airports and catch a plane south to Toulon where I'll spend a couple of days with my "step-daughter", who is  few days older than me. Two hours is barely enough and any kind of delay will mean I may end up sleeping in a hotel and getting a flight the next morning.
Chantal's home is set back from the Mediterranean, on a rise surrounded by her olive orchard. Her horse Pegase (Pegasus) is now 34 years old and has the run of the place. He has wandered into the living room a couple of times, as the big sliding doors are rarely closed. He personifies the term "Things that go bump in the night".
I have plane tickets for the French detour but I'll let them fly without me if there's any sign that I can spend time with my sister.

Do cats remember dogs visually?

I brought home a new foster dog a couple of days ago. Scout is a mature collie boy with no apparent behavioral issues. My first "normal" dog in a while. I'd forgotten how easy collies usually are. Low-key, gentle, accepting of people and other animals. He needs to lose a few pounds and his eyes are being treated with drops and ointment twice daily, but he's otherwise very low-maintenance.
Slinkie, our cat, was right by the front door when we arrived on Thursday. She was surprised to come face to face with a dog the minute the door cracked open, but the meeting was peaceful. We re-erected the customary barricade that allows Slinkie a safety zone in part of the house that includes our bedroom and access to her door out to the garden.
Slinkie has been unusually confident in seeking out nose to nose contact with Scout, through the barrier. She has slid into the common space, wound her way around Scout's legs and miaowed greetings. Scout is thrilled. Even though he's a chunky fuzz-ball version, with some shaved-off patches where his coat was heavily matted when he was picked up as a stray, Scout shares a striking likeness with Diva, our original collie girl who is no longer with us. It's very unusual for Slinkie to be so accepting of a new resident canine. I keep coming to the conclusion that Scout reminds her of her old friend Diva.
There aren't a lot of empty spaces in my life just now. I travelled south last weekend to hang out with a friend. I don't remember if we've ever had a couple of days which were just for us; neither husband in tow. We chose to see movies that we liked the sound of and not something of universal appeal, and ease of translation. To heck with the "greater good", we had a blast.
The day after my excursion, I had to return to the airport to pick up The Artistic One, who landed from France minus his suitcase. The luggage did catch up eventually, but not without several days of phone conversations with Air France, which eventually unearthed the fact that somehow TAO's pronunciation/or writing skills had misled the poor airline into spending a couple of days driving around trying to find Deep Cleefe Drive, Rather than Deep Cliff. TAO's bag was delivered to our door in dead of night, complete with his lap-top and his medications.
Re-opening our work-shop on Tuesday morning, we quickly discovered that a large number of tools had gone missing. There was no sign of a break-in and I had been there, working in my office all the prior week. Sometime between Friday and Tuesday someone, somehow, helped themselves to $10,000 worth of equipment.
We made a police report, had a locksmith change our locks and must put it behind us. There's no recourse, no insurance and no sure way of discerning what happened. We're almost more angry at our one "lead employee" who was supposedly the only key-holder. Although the key is imprinted with the words "do not duplicate", he chose to have an extra key cut and gave it to our second employee, presumably for his convenience, should he be late getting to work in the morning.
We don't pay them to be brain surgeons or rocket scientists but it's hard to imagine they didn't know this wasn't good employee behavior. If they thought we'd be O.K. with it, they could have asked us, right? My first instinct was that I'd rather fire both of them. TAO doesn't want to as it's taken a long time to train them to do the work we need them to do. It's all very distasteful.
On a lighter note, I've been helping a client with ideas to remodel her childhood home. Her father passed away a few months ago and the house, which was built in the 1940's has a labyrinthine floor-plan with bits that were added on over the years. The in-law unit above the garage has a toilet in one closet and a shower in another and there's a downstairs bedroom with a door through one end into the garage.
The garage-bedroom is a natural place to put washer and dryer (currently in the tool-shed). A sink and some cabinets turn that into a laundry/ mud-room and reducing the size by moving one wall creates a full-size guest bedroom with copious closet space on the other side.
The in-law unit will be accessed by a new straight staircase, which will pass through the toilet-closet. Changing the location of the stairs also adds space in the kitchen below, and now the kitchenette anteroom is perfect for a full bathroom. There's a deck off the bedroom that has a view over trees and a glimpse of San Francisco Bay. It's sunny, with windows on three sides. It's destined to be a fabulous suite.
I've brought the floor-plans home with me. I'm trying to work out the best layout for the kitchen. I've enlisted a designer friend who is really good at space-planning. Unfortunately she's not always reliable about deadlines, especially when it's a case of returning favors, which is why I'm trying to move forward in my own way, in case she lets me down.
"Little House" as we've been calling it, has the potential to be a sweet little home with character. It has personality and a large flat garden on a very quiet street. My client's Dad used to enjoy his garden, and feeding the birds. A Blue-Jay followed me, peering at me through different windows, from a variety of improvised perches, as I went from room to room. The garden is overgrown but I can see the magic, waiting to be brought back. It's a perfect candidate for a white picket fence and a wonderful outdoor entertaining area.
I'd be keen to help plan the rebirth of this Little House purely because I love this kind of problem-solving construction, and the client is a sweetheart, but this also has the potential to be a house we can rent and live in as part of our master-plan to reduce our overhead and our time driving back and forth every day.
Many a slip is possible before this comes to pass, so I won't jinx it by saying it's a sure thing. If it happens it will be several months away. The house has been gutted and will need to be put back together once design decisions and budgets are firmed up. Even if we don't end up living there, Little House has sparked so many dreams of decorating rooms and gardens to plant that I feel recompensed for my time. I could never resolve a Rubik's cube puzzle but I can move walls around in my head and visualize the results.

Wake-Up Calls

The Artistic One is in France. It took the usual amount of stress and exasperation to get him there. Did anyone hear about the "new" rules? Apparently, the U.S. are a bit picky about documentation:)
TAO planned his trip and  purchased his ticket (without discussing it with me first), from a French travel agent we've known for years. Subsequent emails from Air France, warning that certain forms had to be filled out prior to departure, were shrugged off as unnecessary and "taken care of" by the French Agent.
One day prior to departure I forced TAO to open the most recent email and scroll down to actually read the request.
It's funny to think back to the days when our green-cards were so crucial, although TAO did manage to lose his at Charles de Gaulle Airport once, in a little "ADVENTURE!" I posted about at the time.
We now have dual citizenship and two passports to look after. TAO had decided that, as he was going to France, he would only require his French passport. He had to be reminded that there would, presumably, be a return trip and that U.S. Customs might not let him back in purely based on his word that he belong here.
Amidst the flurry of departure plans, I've been trying for the last couple of weeks to get some pricing from French suppliers, for custom orders for our clients. Factor in holidays for May 1st, Labor Day and May 8th, Armistice Day and the French habit of creating a "Pont" or bridge to the nearest weekend. A Tuesday holiday becomes Friday-thru-Tuesday and you lose the rest of the week in the "getting ready to leave" and  then the "getting over the fatigue" of so much forced recreation time. Toss in bonus distractions for election fever and I really haven't been able to get any answers for over two weeks. Is this country in need of business or not?
I've lost one client and have been grateful that another has pushed back our meeting a few times due to his business commitments. I was up at 1 am twice this week to match time-zones at the beginning of the French work day. Back to bed for a few more hours and then eyes-wide-open with the dawn and checking email to see if I had my answers. The planets aligned for me with my client asking for one more reschedule and the quote arriving in my in-box Friday morning.
I try not to give up my weekends to work but I was happy to have an 11:30 am appointment this morning with someone who has a proven record of not being a waste of a good Saturday.  This morning his housekeeper answered the door and said he was still in bed, as he'd returned home late the night before. I offered to come back but there was movement from the top of the stairs and we went ahead with our meeting; client tousle headed, in PJ's and clutching his coffee cup but gracious and asking good questions. He also produced his check book and ordered the stone that will be custom cut in France, before they go on vacation for the summer, we hope.
I held a private celebration, in a shoe store, on the way home....Because I'm worth it!

Timing is Everything

As French Artist Husband was winging his way back to me last night, from a trip to show his paintings in Paris; defying the natural progression of time by flying East to West; getting younger by the minute, the very fabric of the Universe was rent asunder to insert an arbitrary hour. Pray tell, where has that hour been all summer?

Somehow, as the Big Fat Seamstress of the Skies grabbed the flimsy edges either side of the patch, a stitch was dropped and two suitcases, that would otherwise have arrived with him after an arduous and uncomfortable flight, in a wheelbarrow flown by Delta Airlines, on which the proffered food was "rolled up, plastic wrapped and unrecognizable", slid sideways onto another time plane and may never be seen or heard from again.