Some irreverent fool sent me this blasphemy.

This afternoon, I was doing my cuddle therapy* with Beau, when Blanche, in what I now interpret as a jealous fit of rage, grabbed my knit cap and ripped it off of my head.

When I left the bergerie and was closing the gate, I saw Beau nuzzling Blanche's face, and Blanche was nuzzling back . . .so I interpreted her act of hostility as a sign that I need to stay away from her man.

*As you may recall, I spend time hugging and petting Beau every time I'm around him so that he views me as a trusted friend and I'll be able to control him when his football sized testicles kick into gear . . . which, according to his breeder, should be any day now.

Beau should look very similar to this buck by the end of the year.
This buck is a Caussenard, a breed that is only found in my departement.

Paradise!

It's indescribably beautiful here.

There's so much snow, I don't think I could get the car out of the driveway if I did have the ridiculous urge to leave.

There are no vehicles on the road . . .no one is working outside, so it is really QUIET.

One can only hear the animals, or the snow falling off over-weighted branches and hitting other branches, or walkers laughing as they pass behind the mill on the trail.

Having the constant motorized roar of the modern world stripped away brings instant nirvana.

Peace on Earth . . .Goodwill towards Plumbers. 

Snow Lightly Falling

Woke up this morning to find the millpond solid and covered with snow.

Approximately a year ago, we had the lesbian plumbers replace our "broken" thermostat with a new, expensive, digital thermostat.

Their firm was also to work on replacing the motor to our central heating system.

At the beginning of the summer, as evidence of their travaux we received a HUGE bill for the work they had done fixing the system.

This winter, when we turned on the system, the thermostat didn't work . . . the house would heat up to an uncomfortably hot temperature, forcing us to trek out to the cold moulin to turn off the heater. Conversely, first thing on a cold morning we had to make the return trip to turn the system back on.

I called the plumbers to have them come out and check the system, but they wouldn't get back to me for a scheduled appointment. After about two weeks of their cat and mouse games, I went in person into their office in the village.

"Oh, we couldn't find a motor that would work for that system. But we're still looking."

Fast forward a few more months, to Tuesday when I called up the plumbers to come and fix a broken water pipe. The skinny male plumber was sent . . . obviously he's not a lesbian. He "fixed" the water pipe, and then to my astonishment, unprovoked, told me he'd return in two days to put the new motor on the heater!

This was going to be a momentous week.

He arrived yesterday, surprisingly early, at 8am . . .then took off quickly afterwards, leaving me with no heat at all.

I checked the thermostat thinking that perhaps, he had fixed the system and all I had to do was adjust it; but the thermostat wasn't displaying any information . . .it was dead. I went out to try and turn the heat on, only to find that he had left the light on in the mill and heater parts lying on top of the heater. I deduced that he wasn't finished and returned to the house to call his office to see if he was returning.

Yes, bien sur, he would be returning this afternoon, I was told by the younger lesbian.

I lit a fire in the fireplace, and turned the electric space heater on upstairs and in my office.

And return he did, around 3:30. He told me that he was called away to repair lots of broken water pipes; but that he wanted to make sure that I had heat for the night. He said he wouldn't be able to finish hooking up the thermostat until the next day, but I would have heat. I said I'd see him tomorrow when he would show me how to operate the thermostat. He left around 5:30.

I didn't have heat all night.

Neither did I have water, because an half-an-hour after the plumber left, I noticed that the pipe he had fixed three days ago had burst again and the water was pouring into the mill pond . . . in my mind's eye, I could see the rapidly spinning water usage counter whirling away our Euros into the bottmless accounts of the water company.

The skinny plumber returned this morning around 10am . . .didn't say a word about leaving me without heat last night. I made sure to tell him that I really suffered . . . and no water to boot!

I instructed him to just cut the burst pipe and end it somewhere where it wouldn't be exposed to the cold. It's not an essential pipe . . .it leads to a faucet in the room with only three walls where the women washed the laundry at the side of the canal. I hate to cut the water supply to that room off, because it is a quaint piece of history . . .but after three attempts at fixing it (one last year) I'm finished with it.

The plumber left at noon, telling me that I now have heat but that it isn't hooked up to the thermostat . . .he needs some sort of instructions which he claims he left on top of the heater last year. I looked and couldn't find it, and will have to wait for a reasonable hour to call the Husband who will only tell me that he didn't move any papers and that I should be able to find it . . .so now I'm back to square one . . .I have heat, but no way to regulate it.

After all these YEARS of struggle with our heater and our constant water problems . . .I'm ready to chuck everything and just strip the house back to it's original 1914 essentials . . . fireplaces, a water pump, a brick outhouse (which is quite pleasant), and candles for light.

Le Bibliotheque

The Husband will be THRILLED, absolutely THRILLED to learn that I am now the proud holder of a library card from our little village.

The bibliotheque is only open four half-days a week.
The librarian is very young, good-looking, and vibrant.
I was very impressed by the selection of books. After perusing the abundant selection, I came to the conclusion that the 4,000 inhabitants of the village must be quite smart.

The card cost me 12 Euros for an annual subscription. The three books I checked out (that's the limit) are: Ancient French Country Architecture, an adult "comic" book about the Revolution, and a John Grisham novel in French . . . I find that POPULAR American novels which have been translated into French, are much easier for me to read than French Novels. French novels are packed with useless nuance and too many big words and historical references of which I know nothing.

For those of you following my autobiography, I have finished the first complete draft of my mystery novel this week, and have already started the massive revision. If anyone would like to volunteer for editing duty . . .let me know. And no, the butler didn't do it.

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle – be Thou near them!
With them – in spirit – we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe.
O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with hurricanes of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with their little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it – for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen." (Mark Twain)

Sheepherding is catching on!

I found this at http://firedoglake.blogspot.com

I arrived 25-years too late . ..

What Blanche Would Look Like if She Were Human.



Alas, the luxuriant, long French meal, en famille is now a quaint custom of days gone by.

"There has also been a breakdown in the classical French tradition of mealtime as a family ritual so disciplined and honored that opening the refrigerator between meals for a child was a crime worthy of punishment. A side effect is a blame-the-mom syndrome, as fewer mothers have time to shop at markets every day or two for fresh foods and instead put more prepared dishes on the table."

The populous is stitting around in front of their television, alone, eating microwaveable meals . . . getting fat. To hell with the French Paradox! Hello Industrial Food.

Alas, the unfeeling corporate maw detroys everything beautiful that lies in its path.

The other day, Roger called to ask if I wanted to come over and strip the cut grape vines away from the wires after he cut them . . . then I could collect the faggots afterward as I did last year.

My husband had left me with express orders not to bring home any more vines as I hadn't used up last year's and they were taking up too much space.

But, I wanted to have an excuse to help Roger with his work, so I said I'd be over the next morning.

I arrived at 10 am as he had suggested, with my trusty sidekicks Antoinette and Attila, and started pulling the vines off of the wires and stacking them in piles that would be tied together to become faggots.

Roger returned from town, changed his clothes, and came out to work. I asked him why he had cut all the branches off the vines. Didn't he usually leave one on? Yes, that was the normal protocol. But he told me that he's RIPPING OUT HIS VINES.

He went on to explain that the price paid for grapes has fallen drastically and there's no reason for a retired man like him to be taking money away from the younger growers. I expressed the fact that I was upset with this development and he asked why and I replied, "because the vines are you."

He eyes welled up with tears and his reached for a handkerchief and to dab them. "But I thought you'd prefer to have pasture for your sheep here."

I replied, now crying, "but I want to see vines between your house and Therese's . . .this is the vrai France."

I told him I'd take care of the vines, if he'd just teach me, and he seemed to think this over; but I found out later, after we had finished clearing the vineyard and were sitting at his table drinking ratafia and I was chowing down on a large bag of potato chips that he always keeps fresh, and on hand for me, that the die had been cast . . .he was being paid to take out the vines. It was a government program.

I used to think that my little area, south of the river, was safe from development. Because the vintners would never consent to selling their vineyards. But globalization has caught up to my little paradise and I angrily resign myself to the sad reality that soon, my beloved farmers will be gone, the lush fields and vineyards will be gone, and in their place will be us relentlessly consuming, always striving foreigners . . .thinking we're living in la belle France, but just fooling ourselves -- we're just re-creating little cloned suburbs of London, Amsterdam, and San Francisco.

The Dutchman down the road told my husband a few weeks ago that agriculture has disappeared in Holland. And when I heard this, I felt a deep loss for Europe . . . and I felt a little more sympathy for the Dutch who have moved down here in hordes. I also felt sort of smug, rejoicing in my good fortune to have happened upon MY special rural haven of the western world.

But my smugness has been slapped from my consciousness . . .and I only mourn . . .for the murder of Roger's 50-year-old vineyards, to my awakening from my dream that I had escaped the corporate maw in America . . .only to encounter another clawing at my sanity.

The other bad news is that the ancient little mill in our commune was purchased by someone British. That means that there will be four properties in our commune that belong to foreigners, 12 that belong to the French . . .25% of my commune is foreign . . .I want to puke.

Beau is on the viewer's left. He's the lucky little buck who was saved from the slaughterhouse and assigned to knock up my ewes. I caught him nuzzling Blanche's face this afternoon so he's making progress on that formidable front . . .he's quite the little Pepe LePhew.

Sometime this spring, he'll have to be taken away from the flock . . .and he'll be a lot bigger and brawnier then(he's already bigger than this two month old photo). So we've been doing "cuddle therapy" each day. I'm trying to get him to bond with me so that I'll be able to control him . . .and he'll be content to go with me on walks in the woods without his flock and their little lambs.

He's quite the sweetie and loves to be hugged and have his stomach rubbed. I guess the way to a man's heart really is through his stomach!

There's something really fun about hugging sheep . . . perhaps I need some sort of therapy for admitting that.

Had a great time with the sheep this afternoon. The weather was so warm that I let them out of their cold barn.

They must have thought that it was spring. They went wild. Blanche and I just stood and watched them as they ran from the bridge to the barn and back again, over and over again.

Even though they were panting as heavily as Pat Robertson at a Hooters Restaurant, they continued running and kicking like little lambs for at least a half an hour: one sheep jumped up and over the back of another without touching the grounded sheep.

I haven't laughed this hard and long for ages.

Sheep shown to be much more sophisticated than previously thought.

"If sheep have such sophisticated facial recognition skills,
they must have much greater social requirements than we thought,"

said Keith Kendrick, of the Babraham Institute in Cambridge, England, and an author of the recent report published in the November 8 issue of the journal Nature.

Do animals have personalities? You bet they do!

Brokeback Mountain

Here are the Freepers discussing their disgust with Brokeback Mountain

Not only do they trash GAYS but the idiots trash the noble calling of SHEEPHERDING!
Ignorant fools.

Antoinette being cute and obedient. 

The asphalt is GONE! But now there's mud, mud everywhere . . .especially on the dogs and in the house. 

The Husband with the new septic tank . . . notice the line of rocks which I referred to in an earlier post. 

Spent the morning: feeding sheep, cleaning the chicken coop, making a rock wall, grocery shopping.

Tomorrow I will: feed the sheep, clean the sheep stable, work on the rock wall.

Notice that the common denominators to my life are animal feeding and feces management.

Here's a brilliant, sensible idea that won't ever catch on in the U.S.: reusable grocery bags.

If you go to a French grocery store they do not give you paper or plastic bags for your purchases. So you're FORCED to bring your own reusable bags. (Yes, I know that some stores in the U.S. give you 5 cents a bag if you use your own bag . . .but they still haven't, and won't eliminate free bags.)

However, if you go to the quaint outdoor farmers' markets here, they're passing out little green plastic bags right and left for all your purchases. That practice annoys me . . .because the plastic takes away the quaintness.

I hate plastic and asphalt.

The Husband got word that the French have awarded him a Carte de Sejour! Lui est tres heureux!

Another Feces Management Engineer Gone Wild

More feces management problems oozing out of the state of Texas. What do you expect from a state where the state flower is the TURD BLOSSOM?

The doo-doo man occupies a horrible sweet spot in the
collective Jungian fabric. He is the primal demon who pops out of the doughnut
display at us all. The shit trickster.
I don't know about you, but the whole
thing undermines the hell out of my own confidence in modernity. If this is how
it's going to be with the doughnuts, then I'd just as soon go back to a
hunter-gatherer society.

Spent the morning picking rocks out of the pasture while the sheep grazed nearby. The little stones I threw in the creek. The large rocks I layered on my rose garden wall.

According to Roger, and an old map he once showed me, the rocks used to be part of an old road that was abandoned in the early 1800's. So the rocks come ready to set in the wall . . . no chiseling required.
I appreciate the serfs that made the old road and its walls . . .they saved me a lot of work.

Unfortunately, what must have been a really quaint road is gone . . .I have to dig the rocks out of the earth. Now, there's an asphalt one taking it's place . . .and when a large truck comes along, the sheep are frightened and run.

I've only been taking one dog out at a time when I graze the sheep . . .today was Attila's turn.

He did a good job of keeping the sheep away from the road.

Roger walked across the road and told me that if I wanted to graze the sheep on his part of the adjacent pasture, that was fine with him. I told him I had already been stealing his rocks. He said that was fine with him too.

Blanche taking the troops for a promenade. 

Don't Mess With Blanche! 

Sheep Gone Bad

Just went in to feed the sheep and was horrified to see that Beau's OTHER horn has been pulled out of his head.

Blanche had a bloody stain on her head.

I think the two of them got in a wrestling match to determine who wears the testicles in the flock, and Blanche clearly won.

It's a sad day when sheep, the most peaceful animals on earth, act violently.

Blanche and Friends 

My Own Personal Haj . . .

Yesterday, I made the mistake of giving the sheep their afternoon feeding a little too early . . .so this morning, I was greeted by Blanche standing at the gate waiting for me. It was clear from the way her mouth was set, hard and pouty, that she was displeased.

When I opened the gate, she tried to push me out of the way in a bold attempt to escape and find a pasture. The other sheep joined in by bunching up beside and behind her.

And they all pushed.

So I had a BOUCHON of major proportions

It's difficult to wrestle a 200lb plus sheep.

Speaking of sheep, here's what the U.S. Democrat Senator Sheep are allowing to happen in their country . . .

The administration's behavior shows how high and immediate the stakes are
in the Alito nomination, and how urgent it is for Congress to curtail Mr. Bush's
expansion of power. Nothing in the national consensus to combat terrorism after
9/11 envisioned the unilateral rewriting of more than 200 years of tradition and
law by one president embarked on an ideological crusade.

The Case of the Missing Horn

Went out to feed the sheep last night and was SHOCKED to discover that my little buck, Beau, had a bloody hole in his head and one of his budding horns was MISSING.

It's very bizarre. Beau was locked up in a small stable with the girls all day and I can't find any trace of the whereabouts of his missing horn . . . nor blood splatter to help me solve the mystery.

Could have been space aliens . . .or middle-aged Japanese men collecting libido enhancers . . . or Blanche making it clear that she's the leader of the pack (if this was the case, I'm relieved she didn't rip off his testicles).

The Husband speculated that perhaps Beau was just shedding his "baby horns" but I don't think that happens.

Any shepherds out there with any clues?

Now that's TRUST!

At 4 am I left the house to drive the Husband to the airport.

On the return trip, at 6:11am the gendarmes flagged me over for a sobriety test.

A mustachioed gendarme approached my window, while unwrapping a tube with an attached balloon.

The gendarme asked, "Have you been drinking?"

I replied, "Non."

He told me that I was free to go and waved me on.

They don't build em like they used to. However, I'm sure the unsightly raingutter came from OBI.

Goodbye Old Europe, Hello OBI

After taking a walk yesterday and being horrified to find a patch of our local forest being stripped of its trees, and then finding a little further along the path a new cinderblock house going up that arrogantly wrecks the quaint view of several old stone houses, I thought of this "essay" I wrote a few years back for some friends who were hesitant to travel to Europe with their children.


There is no better time to take your children to Europe than when they are young. My fondest memories with my son, Preston, will always be the months we spent in Europe: trying new foods, tramping across battlefields, riding trains, exploring beautiful beaches, and our many pilgrimages to the Parisian toy store, Nain Bleu. Preston’s now a six-foot-three teenager, and still we reminisce about our European escapades. As a result of sharing this strange adventure in foreign lands, a special camaraderie develops between parent and child, weaving a colorful tapestry which bonds us closer together.

One memorable adventure was the autumn evening that Preston, age eleven, my teenage helper, Kelly, and I were lost in southeast Belgium without a hotel reservation. I insisted on driving from town to town in the forested hills looking for a “quaint” village in which to sleep. But I couldn’t find one that fulfilled my idyllic vision. Granted, the trees were bereft of leaves, the summer flowers were gone, and perhaps my view of the villages through which we passed was jaded by the onset of winter. As night fell, Kelly and Preston anxiously voiced the unpleasant thought that we might be forced to spend the night sleeping in the car. They suggested that I not insist upon finding a “quaint” hamlet. To calm them, I agreed to seek a hotel in the next village down the road.

While not as drab as the other villages we had seen, the next town we happened upon would not have made anyone’s list of Most Beautiful Belgian Villages. However, the downtown appeared vibrant and bustling with many people, a hopeful sign that the place had value. More importantly, for an American, this town had a hotel which was listed, indeed featured, in my guidebook. To our chagrin, this guidebook forgot to mention that the hotel lobby was filled with large, dusty, tropical plastic plants, a revelation which incited me to ask to see a room before I handed over my credit card. The room was no more enticing than the lobby. Even the desperate duo of Preston and Kelly didn’t want to lay their heads on those beds.

Making our escape, we spotted an older inn across the square. I suspected that at one time, it had been the town’s grand hôtel as it was of good size and situated at the center crossroads of the village. Now, it was haggard-looking, especially in comparison to its neighbor, the proudly elegant town hall, the former chateau of a bishop who was guillotined in the Révolution. Since this establishment wasn’t “featured” in the guidebook, we were justifiably frightened to enter. Not having many options, we marshaled our resolve and marched towards our fate.

We were not surprised by the no-frills ambiance when we walked through the hotel’s doors. Looking around, a strange feeling overcame us. We slowly began to believe that perhaps we had entered one of those mysterious sci-fi time warps. You see, we had inadvertently lost our way in the Ardennes where the Battle of the Bulge had taken place during World War II. Hence, the reason for the lack of quaintness in the area; many of the villages had been destroyed, and those townspeople who remained had hastily and inexpensively rebuilt. This town, however, seemed to have remained intact; and, as we would discover, nothing about this old hotel had changed much since the war.

The lobby served double duty as the ancient proprietress’ living room. She sat in an overstuffed chair petting her cat and watching television. Crocheted doilies, books, magazines, and mementos covered the tables. A welcoming blaze burned in the expansive fireplace. Family photos kindly looked down from the mantel. She smiled, delicately raised herself, turned off the television, and slowly walked to her command post situated behind a dark walnut counter. A hutch of artfully crafted cubby holes stood watch behind her, repositories for the mail and keys of the guests. There was a bell on the counter to summon a bell-boy who didn’t exist any more. Everything resembled a film noir movie set.

I didn’t ask to see a room. I suppose I was charmed by the woman’s cherubic smile. She didn’t accept credit cards, so we surrendered our passports into her outstretched hand. I inquired about restaurants and she suggested we eat in the hotel’s restaurant. Surprised that this small hotel had a restaurant, I agreed that we would. She wrote our names in a large black reservation ledger and then signaled that we should follow her to our two rooms. Our entourage made its way via a creaky staircase which wound up to an equally creaky and dimly lit hallway. The carpet runners were worn threadbare. Our hostess unlocked our rooms with large skeleton keys, opened the drapes, and waited for our comments. We assured her that the rooms were satisfactory. She smiled and left us. Preston promptly tested the springs on his squeaky iron bed.

At dinner, the three of us were the only customers in the restaurant. This lack of patronage unsettled us. We quietly discussed the probability of getting good, fresh food in a restaurant that has no customers. I assume that the proprietress must have called in the cook and the waitress especially for us, forcing them to leave their warm homes to make dinner for three wayward souls. There was no way a profit could be realized from serving us that night, for the food was ridiculously inexpensive. I tried to make up for this incongruity by tipping well. The food wasn’t remarkable, but it was good.

While we cannot remember what we ate for dinner, I am certain that we will remember our visit to that hotel as one of the more transcendent events of our lives. Lining one wall of the restaurant were black and white photos of this little town taken on the day it was liberated by the United States Army. The streets were thronged with American soldiers and Belgian citizens. With wine bottles clasped firmly in hand, they smiled broadly as they hung off army trunks and tanks, reveling in relief that the Germans were vanquished.

One photo had captured Ernest Hemingway, dressed in battle fatigues, eating where we were now dining. He had come with the troops as a war correspondent for Collier’s Magazine. The three of us were excited to discover the minor role our dilapidated hotel had played in the grand history of the world. I can’t help but think that the old proprietress consciously presented us with a great honor that night: to open her restaurant, so that we could understand the immense kindness and consideration she felt for us three lost Americans.

I’m crying as I write this, surprised that this strange, unplanned night is so emotional for me. My 11-year-old, World War II-fanatic son, was able to go back in time and have the ghosts of that long ago war touch him in a way that is probably impossible now: because he’s older and jaded, because the elements that existed to give him that experience have disappeared into the vast forgotten minutiae of history. After dinner, Preston insisted on sitting in the lobby with the old woman. He just wanted to be near her: this breathing, fragile link to the searing, world-altering history he had seen in the movies and read in books. Preston sat across from her, enveloped by a feather-stuffed chair, his cheeks made rosy by the glowing fire. He now held the cat. For a brief moment, he was back in 1945, listening to the clock tick, and waiting for the arrival of the soldiers who would rescue him.

In the morning, with my barely adequate French, I was able to piece together that, during the war, the proprietress had lived and worked in the hotel with her husband and his parents. Now, only she remained, caring for the place the best she could. She’s probably dead now. Perhaps the hotel isn’t there, or if it is still a hotel, it has been renovated, because I doubt that any modern owner would be interested in keeping those old iron beds and worn carpets in place, even if Ernest Hemingway had slept there, ate there, drank there, and treaded the floors. Happily for Kelly, Preston, and me, we had the good fortune to wander in that night. And for the admission price of two rooms at $25 each, we were treated to one of the most sublime human experiences: having our souls touched and warmed by a dying ember of history.

The women who served our dinner returned to provide us with breakfast. For this meal, we were joined by an elderly American couple from Michigan who had arrived at midnight. The man pointed to the photos on the wall and proudly told us that he had been one of those soldiers thronging the streets. He had always wanted to bring his wife back here to tour the town that had welcomed him so warmly. He had decided to finally make the trip because his health was failing. It wasn’t Lourdes he wanted to see. The object of his loving pilgrimage was this magical little town nestled in these battle-scarred mountains. Kelly and I left Preston at the breakfast table with the old soldier discussing long-ago battles, while we packed for our trip back to Brussels, via another famous battlefield, Waterloo.

We Americans believe that Europe will always remain the same: quaint, historic, elegant, romantic, mystical. But the sad truth is that day by day, the Europe of which we dream dissolves away. A window shutter needs replacing and instead of having one handmade, the European buys a mass produced shutter at their equivalent of Home Depot. Mass production is the enemy of “quaintness.” Our modern, efficient world doesn’t have much patience for an old woman who runs a hotel with a vacancy rate of 85%. The people who lived in Europe when it was truly different from the United States die off every day, and so that tinge of the exotic fades into a lost past. The European youth wear Nike shoes and Gap clothes. They wouldn’t be caught dead in lederhosen or a beret. The colorful “extras” which populate our drives through the European countryside and our village strolls vanish each day into the all-encompassing multi-national corporate maw.

Time continues its inexorable course. My teenage Preston would rather hang out with his band and his girlfriend. Traveling with Mom has no allure for him now. This year, I’ll go by myself to France with my husband joining me for part of the trip. Preston and I will always have the European adventures of his childhood; and when he reaches manhood, perhaps he will tell his own children of the moment in history when he and their grandmother traveled back in time to World War II.

The Lingerie Shop

I've often discussed on this blog how what I want and need always shows up at my doorstep if I'm just patient and wait long enough.

For instance, about a month ago, I started lining up rocks on our driveway, altering them each day, to create the perfect curve where the asphalt meets the lawn. I hate asphalt, and we have a lot of it left over from the days when this place was a working flour mill and frequented by large delivery trucks.

I sort of became obsessed with this curve . . . sitting at my kitchen table in the morning I'd see a rock that seemed out of line and hop up from the table, run outside and alter it's position . . . trying to create the "perfect" curve .

Altering the curve wouldn't be that easy. I'd have to discuss it with the Husband . . .there would be a lot of asphalt to rip out and the Husband would probably debate me about removing it, as it would be a big job and we have a lot more pressing renovations to do here then to make a curve more asthetic . .. . and besides, he didn't see anything wrong with the present curve . . . and, as it was he didn't like the rocks laid out on the existing driveway . . . he worried that someone would wreck their car on them.

None of our visitors made any comments, but I assumed that everyone who saw the line of rocks thought it was a very odd obstacle to have cutting through one's driveway for no good reason.

Then, unexpectedly and "miraculously" a huge backhoe showed up on the 2nd of January to put in our new septic tank.

I asked the workmen if they would pull up all the asphalt that I had marked out with my rocks . . . they readily agreed and it only took them about 5 minutes!

So now my driveway looks perfect to me! And the Husband likes the curve too . . . because he didn't have to dig out the asphalt and it pleases me.

Along the same line of getting what you want if you're just patient . . . last year, I got this idea to go out and buy fancy French lingerie.

No one does lingerie better than the French. And the good stuff is still all manufactured in France, not in China. The manufacturers actually have a group that they put together to make sure that the quality lingerie is still made in France.

I researched French lingerie on the web, and came up with the brand I wanted --- Aubade -- but couldn't find any in the stores I visited. So I went back to the States without my lingerie.

Well lo and behold, a lingerie store opened up in my little village of 4,000 people and the main brand is, you guessed it, Aubade.

(Cultural warning to tourists: Unlike American saleswomen, French saleswomen will NOT knock on the dressing room door nor give you any warning before they enter.)

So I splurged and bought three sets of really cool bras and panties . . . and when I'm wearing them, I feel very, very FRENCH!

I'm just amazed at what the shops in my little village offer . . . I really don't have to go anywhere to go shopping. Everything I need is right here in this little slice of heaven.

I'm going out now, to take a long walk to keep my derriere in shape for my new French lingerie.

This should scare the hell out of you!

Obesity epidemic in New York City . . .



At dinner Saturday night, our guests were laughing heartily as our French friends, who had visited us in San Francisco, retold their shockingly lurid tale of attending a Giants baseball game.
The baseball game bored them. However, our friends' attention turned to watching "real" Americans in action.

Our friends were mesmorized, stunned, shocked, horrified as they watched the spectators shovel food and drink into their maws in individual portions that would amply feed a French family of ten. My friend reminded me of the obese woman who sat next to me with a tank of Coke strapped to her back!

Meanwhile, back in the good ole' U.S.A. . . .

an iconic restauranteur may be biting the dust!

A magnificent coup!

A little bakery in Italy forced the closure of a McDonalds by simply offering REALLY DELICIOUS SANDWICHES!

Antoinette Pet

Attila the Hunny

The Long Arm of the Law

We have a new septic tank!

At the end of this year, the dear residents of our departement will no longer have the right to freely send their raw sewage out into the world.

We never could figure out where ours was going. I was always a bit nervous that someone would happen upon it.

The installation was five days of massive devastation, but as a happy by-product I got a lot of ASPHALT removed, a garden installed, and some minor landscaping accomplished.

We’re making progress here at Chez Hovel!

Bonne Annee

It was a wild beginning to the year.

On New Year's Day, Buck went up on the tiled, dilapidated roof of our wood shed and fell through.

A visiting friend was outside the house when she heard the crash, went to investigate, and found Buck dangling by some thick ivy vines.

I was in the village on a bakery run, so she retrieved the husband.

When the husband arrived on the scene, Buck crashed through, doing a good imitation of a pinball machine as he banged through the assorted rusty equipment piled up below him.

He seems to have escaped with his testicles intact, and for that we are grateful because he was just beginning to exhibit signs of his budding heterosexuality.