Nature: Further lessons in futility

Wisp in my straw bag

Cute, isn't she? That's what I thought I'd write about when my son found her in my bag and suggested I get my camera. Sweet, adorable, cute kitty cat.

Predator, prowler, huntress cat is more accurate. I know this. I know that I can't fight against it. Invite a cat into your home and garden -- or don't, you don't have to; they show up in the garden anyway --, and there are other animals that don't stand a chance, like birds. Birds just like the one I saved yesterday, carrying it home in my sweaty hand, half-rolled into the bottom of my t-shirt on the last kilometer of my run.

It might have been the first bird ever to go on a one kilometer jog.

I was returning to the house from down at the barbecue to wash up while the coals whiten, when I saw Wisp, crouched in the lawn by the fish and frog "pond" in that horrible, tell-tale position that says, "I am protecting my prey" or "I am consuming it right this very moment". She looked up at the dogs and I as we crossed the brief expanse of lawn and licked her maw as she watched us approach, then she got up and retreated to the front steps, leaving a stone colored object in the grass. I approached and bent my head to get a better look; it was a bird just like the one I saved yesterday, only its head was missing and the muscles of its legs were exposed, entrails inviting Baccarat for a little snack.

"I don't mind if I do, thank you very much, Wisp," said she.

"Don't count on my welcome," replied Wisp, "for you have ruined my supper," and the bird, in one bite, was done.

Baccarat gazed at me across the lawn, "Have I," she asked, "perhaps done something wrong?"

"You'll both," I menaced, pruning shears in hand, "soon be long gone, if we ask Audouin."
....

A shoe story

In the glass of the falling-off kitchen door

or, what I do with my days
for those who ask

I did it. I finally went for my first run in my (fake) Vibram fivefingers running shoes (thank you, China), and I loved it.

This is for those of you who have asked me to let you know what I thought. I won't just let you know what I thought; I'll also tell you what my friend, the one who told me about Christopher MacDougall's book Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen and Vibram fivefingers barefoot running shoes, had to say after running his first marathon in his:

The Edinburgh Marathon went well until 16 miles (on target for 4:30) when I tripped over, tore my shoe and cut my right big toe. Thought about giving up, sat around for about 20 minutes - then thought I might as well finish. By this point my legs had stiffened up so I ended up walking trying to get my legs going for at least Five miles - only to fall over again. Cut my left foot. Decided to keep on keeping on with it. Overtaking [an old school friend and inspiration to the world] in the final few yards. Two hours later than intended!

So what did I learn?

Five fingers don't make you run faster.
The last year has made my legs strong enough to do a marathon without any pain the following day.
A small piece of grit inside your shoe will drill holes in the soles of your feet.
I weigh 106kg and ran a marathon with no joint pain whatsoever!

They might not make you run faster, but I will tell you that they let me run faster, and I put them to the true test.

The True Test:

1. Do not run for at least 3 weeks. At all. Sit around as much as possible and let yourself start feeling really mentally and physically sloggy, convinced you could never walk your usual course again -- ever --, much less run it, in any form of shoe.
2. Take a nice hour and a half long stroll through the Marais in your brand new Paule Ka sandals with 5" wedge heels. Notice there is a large screen TV showing a world cup first round game, cross the rue Vieille du Temple and watch Donovan Landon score the goal against Algeria for the 1-0 win that qualified the USA for the second round, taking first place in their group over England, mind you, with a small crowd attracted by the celebratory noise coming from this chic gay bar filled with young professionals sipping cocktails on a lovely June evening.
   
3. Go out to a cerebral discussion with a terrific British performance artist (and very good friend of the friend above), who uses dramaturgy and video to explore social forms in a philosophical inquiry and a third-rate French philosopher (need I say more?) in Paris at The Centre Pompidou, and follow that up with a half bottle of a Touraine blanc (a bottle for two, keeping pace), followed by a falafel from over at the falafel café while walking over to the Montorgeuil quarter to enjoy an Aligote and more conversation until the cafés closed.

1. Walk back to the motorcycle and ride 50 minutes back up the highway, home to the countryside.
   
2. Arrive at 3 am. [Find text message from son telling you the doors are locked and you will need your key to enter by the one furthest to the left facing the house, which is the only one you can open if the house is locked, but it was a dear thought to let me know I'd need to search my bag for my keys to get inside.]
3. Putter around the house, read a chapter of Emma in bed.
4. Get up at 9:30 am, make coffee, scrambled eggs with coriander and soy milk with calcium and eat them with apricots. [I recommend that whether you are about to test yourself or not.]
5. Read email, reply to a few, and do a little discount online shopping. Swear to cut back on expenses next month, and go get your Vibram fivefingers.
6. Slather on plenty of sunblock (Anti UVB), set your pink running cap on your head, slide your Oakleys in place and head out.
7. Feel the difference.

Oh my!

My legs moved more freely than they had with my running shoes, be they Asics, New Balance, or Mizunos. I felt more power in each stride, as though my muscles didn't have to work as hard, and the hill --

Was there a hill?

I am sure it has to do with the increased surface contact of the splayed forefoot and toes, using all of those muscles to push off, rather than having them just grouped helplessly together in the toebox of your running shoe. Someone who knows yoga well mentioned that it is similar to how one uses the splayed forefoot to increase contact with the ground in a standing posture, adding strength and stability.

The only drawback was the development of a blister on the pad of the ball of my left foot, just below the big toe, but I had already started to feel something there, walking around Paris in my city shoes the previous evening. I stopped to walk a little, thinking of the high-heeled strappy Stuart Weitzman gold mules I'd be wearing to a wedding Saturday, but it didn't make any difference. Blisters hurt no matter what speed you move, unless it is 0 kph. So, I picked up the pace again, ran down the hill from the ridge to the road into the village, and just entering Moosesucks, there, right at the edge of the pavement, was another bird.

He stood there, blinking, his little beak opening and closing as though he'd say something if he felt up to it. It was the same as the baby one that died after the animals found it, probably fallen from the linden tree, and the same as the dead one I found in the bike lane along the Transamazonienne one of my last runs on the balls of my feet in my old New Balance running shoes. I bent and lifted it up in my sweaty hand, cupping it gently. It gripped my finger with its claws, holding on tightly. I stood there and thought about it: did I place it in the grass along the side of the road, or did I carry it the last kilometer home and watch it? With my track record saving birds (excuse the pun), that didn't seem worthwhile, but I am no good at leaving weakened creatures to die, exposed.

Much better to let them die in my hand, or in a box in my house.

I started to walk towards the house, thinking what a shame it was that I wasn't getting to see how much faster I could do the same run in my fivefingers. I hesitated, and started to go back to put the bird down. My hands were wetting its feathers. It clutched my finger. I turned around again and started to jog gently, looking down to see just how much it was being bobbled and jostled around.

It looked alright. I kept on, bringing the bottom of my t-shirt up around it for a little extra support and watched the cars of neighbors I recognized pass me by.

They're probably thinking you are clutching your left arm and that you have hurt yourself, said myself.

"I know, and if anyone stops to ask me if I need a ride home, they are going to know I am crazy for certain." Myself nodded in agreement.

Let's just hope, said myself as one of the former adjunct mayors drove by in his British Jaguar. His mother was Irish. I'm sure that explains the right-side steering wheel.

Entering the more populous section of the street, the neighbor from across the street and her teenage son passed me. I saw him recognize me and tried to look natural with my right hand grasping my left forearm and t-shirt bottom. I picked my pace up a little and smiled brightly, making a little nod of my head.

Coming down the home stretch, I saw the owner of the Jaguar's neighbor, heading home from the café, what looked like a portfolio tucked under her arm, her straw hat removed from the cord of the venetian blinds she has hung over her street window and tied to the old boat on which she has set several pots of flowers, her own shaded sidewalk terrace, everything painted a sunny yellow. She speaks English with a charming BBC accent and stops by to visit with me regularly.

I haven't had the courage to explain to her that I don't do much "visiting".

I slowed, hoping not to hear my own bell ring at my gate. Reassured she had walked on by, I darted up along the wall of the house and into the gate, the bird still breathing, looking over the edge of my t-shirt hem.

We sat together outside for a very long time, and then moved in to read more email.

Are you going to stay home now, instead of go get the things you need for the wedding? asked myself.

"I don't know. I mean -- I guess so. I did bring it home; I can't just pop it into a bush and wish it luck."

No. Wisp or Shadow would have it in an instant, if Baccarat didn't get to it and try to bathe it with her tongue first.

"I guess we'll see," I said, checking once again to see if it were my own pulse I were feeling or if it were still alive. The eyes opened and the head swiveled to look at me. I sat there opening my hand to avoid boiling it in my overheated palm and soaking its feathers, and to let it know it was free. Time passed, and then, in a rush of movement, it had flown, crashing around the living room, up on top of the ceiling beam, up the stairs, back across the room, and there was another rush of movement as two cats and two Labrador Retrievers nearly knocked the dining table chairs and everything on the table down, trying to get to the bird on the loose. I swore at myself for having come into the house, and then, there was silence.

Only there was a problem; Wisp was far too interested in the radiator. The window above stood wide open, but not only Wisp, but all the animals were staring at the radiator. I got up to look, and there was a mass of gray feathers topped by a little head and beak.

It's dead? asked a panicked self.

"I don't know. I'll have to try to touch it and see," I said, turning to get something I could stick through the radiator. I saw the bread knife, but that was definitely too threatening. You don't poke stunned, and possibly injured birds, with the end of a bread knife. I got out a regular kitchen knife and stick it gingerly through the coils. It moved. It looked at me. It took us another five minutes to get it out from behind the radiator, me slapping Wisp and Baccarat back. It flew in loops up to the ceiling and came to rest in the handle of a basket up on the cabinets. I got a chair and reached to pick it up, but it flew away toward the open window, and banged directly into a pane of glass, coming to rest on top of the radiator. I had visions of it sliding down between the coils again, but it flapped and flew out to come to rest on the ivy growing on the garden wall, all four animals racing out the door nearest them, Wisp taking the most direct route out through the same window as the bird.

I have finally, at last, possibly been of help to a poor bird.

And as for my Paule Kas? Besides a threatening blister? I did get two "ooh et aah" compliments in Autour du Monde Maison from a clerk and a terribly well put together French woman, who stopped to watch me put them back on after trying on a pair of Bensimons, which I did not buy.

See? I have some self-control. Besides, my sandals were much cooler than another pair of Bensimons.

Even the Liberty of London print ones.
....

Work begins again, or learning to live with imperfection

More sheet rock

There are other pictures of last evening's work that show the room to be what it is, much brighter, but I like shadows and contrast, as for the work itself, for the moment I say, as the French do, "no comment." I am withholding judgment, which would very much surprise my husband to read that, since he believes he heard plenty of it yesterday. Loudly, and with conviction.

"Mais tu es un vrai bricoleur!" I believed I shouted, not necessarily at him, although I am sure he is convinced otherwise.

In fact, at one point, he approached me in the kitchen, where I had sought refuge in another pressing task that needed me at not far from 10 pm -- the preparation of a late supper --, my son having another four-hour exam session the next afternoon, with the last two following Tuesday and Wednesday, and made reference to my steadiest criticism of the French Education Nationale, our reviled system of education, "Et tu parles d'encouragement."

He was complaining about my lack of such encouragement for him. The thing of it is that he is making a poor comparison. He has not, you see, once come to me to learn a thing, knowing it all better than do I already. What encouragement ought I, then, to offer?

Hm?

I let it go without comment, just as I had tried to let go without comment his renewed and vigorous cursing of the lightweight framing system for the insulation earlier in the evening.

"C'est vraiment de la merde ce système -- Mais! Ce n'est pas possible! -- Regarde-moi ça! Mais regarde ça! -- Mais on ne peut même pas faire rentrer la vise! Ca sort à chaque fois, mais que c'est de la merde ce système -- Je m'en fou de ce qu'ils dissent -- Mais! C'est pas possible!"

I reminded him that it is conceived and fabricated by two of the top materials systems companies (Isover and Stihl), used not only in France but in the UK and the US, and probably elsewhere, in fact, certainly elsewhere, and somehow, somehow everyone else manages to screw it to the framing.

In fact, he had managed to screw it to the framing, with greater and lesser success, when we first started hanging sheet rock (was it only a month ago?). The screws, at any rate, didn't come flying back out of their holes, and he hadn't had to push into them with all the weight and strength of his upper body, sending the ladder sliding away from the wall. I suggested that he stop, recover his senses and his calm and let me go and ask at the supplies store the next day what we might do, see if the neighbor didn't have a proper cordless driver as I believed he had offered, but there is no stopping him when he is in a fury, and I went off to announce Brazil's goals (that second with not one but two hand balls was too much!) and red and yellow cards (Shame on Kader Keita! FIFA should throw that one out, suspend Keita and let Kaka play against Portugal) to him from the living room, and to read the articles covering the dramatic catharsis les Bleus were staging on the World Cup's theater this weekend after too much pressure, too much loss, and too many years of Raymond Domenech and Jean-Pierre Escalettes at the top of the FFF.

Spoiled and overpaid they might be, but since so is every other player on an elite national team in Europe and South America that is perfectly inadequate to explain the team's only solidarity: absolute opposition to their leadership from the Fédération Française de Football. No, it is the FFF itself that is to blame.

"Carton rouge pour le Brésil!" I called to the sounds of the electric drill in the deepening evening. "C'est Kaka! Et, mais c'est pas possible!" I exclaimed, my husband appearing to stand behind the armchairs and watch the replay, "il n'a strictement rien fait de tout!"

I mean, c'mon, Keita didn't even grab the right "injured" part!

My husband watched and shook his head as Kaka walked off field, suspended for the next match against Portugal. Like that didn't feel bought and paid for, somehow, if it weren't payback for Brazil's two uncalled handballs in Fabiano's second goal, a goal the BBC reports "had a dubious hint of handball." Hardly dubious; even the referee told Fabiano with a knowing smile after the goal was counted that there was hand, showing him precisely on his own arm where he had used his to control the ball. But no, there absolutely should NOT be video refereeing so the referee would have the advantage of actually seeing what happens on the field. That would RUIN soccer!

[Note: It has come to my attention that I need to make a sarcasm alert for the above comment. So, sarcasm alert!]





Next, Italy will be offering Keita citizenship. Thank you, anyway, for giving us reason to forget les Bleus for a moment.

My husband hesitated a moment before returning to the drill he had left in the "petit salon".

"Ah, je me suis rendu compte," he said, "que c'était de ma faute que les vis ne rentraient pas." I looked away from the replays in succession and at his face, in the penumbra. There was, he was saying, nothing wrong with the screws or the system. He had my attention, and I knew where he was going with his confession. "J'ai eu la perceuse en marche arrière comme pour enlever les vis." Mais voilà, bien sur. En marche arrière.

He had, in other words, the drill in reverse, as you would to remove screws.

Ah.

The problem is rarely outside oneself. Such is the use of calm. Now, if he can do that in the OR, why on earth -- ?

Today, I am in a miserable state not because the traitor in the locker room still hasn't been forced to walk the mutineers' plank in the world press and French public conscience -- the one who told everybody that soccer players use really bad words, allowing us to all suspect at last that superstar soccer players aren't necessarily gentlemen, despite their suits for travel and when forced to sit out for injury --, but because I really should have waterproofed the exterior walls before installing the lightweight metal framing, insulation and sheet rock.

Meanwhile, it's the Fête de la Musique and the first day of summer (cloudy and chilly), and my husband asked if I was to go to the fête somewhere (it's everywhere), or maybe hang some more sheet rock.

Is that rain I hear?

Sheet rock, if he'll borrow the neighbor's cordless sheet rock screw driver.
....

My piano comes home

Johann Urbas, Dresden
No. 9281, circa 1920

My heart still feels all tight in my chest, and I am in the next room from where it sits, waiting for me to learn to play again on it. I never expected, ever, to own my own piano, let alone so beautiful an instrument, and I feel pure gratitude.



It has been so many years since I played, and I remember my first lesson, down Haverhill Drive with someone I have forgotten before I went to study with Mrs. Markarian. I also remember the day I stopped, You'll regret it, everyone who had also stopped told me. You'll never play again, and you will regret it.

"I already do," I replied to myself.

Think of something else.

Why is it that every time you see a piano in the company of someone else, you cannot refrain from saying, "I used to play. I played well, but I stopped, and I cannot play anymore."

"Play something for us!"

"I can't. I have completely forgotten how to play. Even to read music."

"But, that's not possible! Please, do play something."

"I'm sorry, I can't."

They said you'd regret it, and you knew it.

"And they were right."

I have to begin again, from scales and finger exercises. I wish I had my old sheet music books, the fingering marked my Mrs. Markarian. I'll need a bench, and a metronome.

They were right. I have felt guilt and regret all these years, every time I saw a piano and could not play it, when once I could have considered going to competition, looked at sheet music and wondered how I ever could have read it and told my fingers what to do. It seemed unbelievable, and part of another life. The one in which I knew how to do those things, but I was too scared to perform and thought it was too absurd to continue if I were so reluctant. I went to college, had too much work to do in studio to ever go to the piano practice rooms, visited home for vacations and walked right past the piano.

Monsieur Baudry looked around the garden at the sunlight and the flowers after the piano was safely in its place. I watched him.

"Ca c'est pourquoi je reste ici. La maison," we both turned and looked up at the house, "est dix fois trop -- excusez-moi, j'exagère -- petite, mais je ne peux pas quitter ce jardin." He looked back out over the flower beds and the treetops to the fields beyond and nodded.

"C'est une piscine là en bas?" he asked, pointing to the bright blue spot showing between the branches of a shrub in the middle distance.

"Oui," I answered. He looked, it seemed to me, very intently at it all.

"Vous voulez voir le reste?" I asked him, thinking he might refuse politely, preferring to hurry off to something else. I didn't think he would.

"Oui. Pourquoi pas," he smiled, and I felt grateful to my garden for yet another reason: it was helping make up for his having to keep my piano months in his studio. A lovely June afternoon, by some act of God's favor, was a much nicer time to deliver it than in the dead of January.

I showed him the bench in the right intermediate terrace, settled into the sloped bank of St. John's Wort, facing the daylilies, about to bloom below the row of stone urns, planted with Surfinias and Geraniums.

"C'est boucolique!"

"Là," I pointed down towards the jungle below us and the burning pile, "nous allons construire une sort d'abri pour un atelier pour mon mari pour la rénovation de son ancien bateau en bois, et pour moi -- une place pour mes outils de jardinage --"

"Vous avez des projets!" he laughed.

"Ca, vous pouvez le dire, et voilà pourquoi --", but I let the sentence drop off. We knew. Think of the months the piano had sat in a corner of his studio, ready to come here.

"Quand est-ce que vous allez avoir le temps de jouer au piano?" he said, laughing again.

"Oh, je vais le faire. Ca sera ma détente," I replied with conviction. I was forgiven.

I led him and his son down the other stair, under the arc of the Wisteria, past the Forsythia and down to the gazebo terrace, past the Pierre de Ronsard in full bloom, the Ghislaine de Féligonde, bent over from the weight of its bunches of small, butter-yellow roses, the grass thick with its petals, if not thick with grass, which it is not here.

"Vous vous en occupez toute seule de tout ça?" asked Monsieur Baudry. Claude.

"Oui. Ca aussi, c'est pourquoi --" It's why the room was still not ready for the piano six months after I bought it.

We passed the Judas Tree, and I explained that I had that area to redo; a previous effort had been rather a failure. We went down the stone steps, past a twisted hazelnut tree in need of a pruning, and came out onto the bit of scrappy lawn, green more from weeds than blades of grass, behind the Birch and Tulip trees.

"Là," I pointed to the four shrubs along the wall under the gazebo terrace, "ce sont des Althéas." Roses of Sharon, in white, dark pink and purple. They will bloom much later in the summer. His eyes followed my hand, and he looked back up toward the house.

"C'est très beau, mais beaucoup de travail. Vous pouvez même enlever des plantes, tellement il y en a." I laughed, explaining that, indeed, I had already removed many plants, and it was true. I could remove more, but I like it. As much work as they are, I like them, although it needs more thought, changes. I have been adding plants again, actually. Roses and clematis to run through other plants and keep the flowering season going in the summer months, make it a jumble and almost overpowering, like heady perfume on a beautiful woman.

I want people to fall under its sway, overpowered, enchanted.

We walked over to the pool, where I pointed to a presently pathetic border behind the end of the pool where I had intended Hydrangeas to thrive, only to discover that the August sun and our annual absence during that time are overpowering to them.

"Vous vous en servez beaucoup?" he asked, wondering if we used the pool much.

"Pas de tout assez."

"C'est dommage qu'on n'a pas nos maillots de bain!" he laughed, sorry they didn't have their trunks. I nearly proposed I leave them to take a dip in their briefs, since the pool is in such a private location, but it occurred to me that perhaps we aren't on quite such intimate terms yet, although I certainly had felt quite free to abuse of his hospitality for my piano. Instead, I proposed that they feel quite free to return any time they please, bring his wife, and we could picnic and enjoy the garden, the pool and my work, finished.

"Je serai vieille par ce moment-là bien sur," I laughed, quite old by the time my projects and all my work here will be finished.

"Soyez certaine de le jouer," he said to me, climbing into the passenger seat of their truck. "Ca serait dommage de ne pas le faire."

"Croyez-moi, j'en ai l'intention de le jouer. Il est beau, non seulement à regarder, mais à entendre. Voilà pourquoi je l'ai acheté."

His son shifted into reverse, and the van started to beep as I waved and headed across the street to the old gate, held in place with wire. I secured it, avoiding the greeting of a new acquaintance, determined to become the companion of my days, a woman with one front tooth, two fewer than my old acquaintance down by the Seine, the one with the goats and dogs and cats in the camping trailer surrounded by the accumulated junk that makes her feel secure and prosperous, and headed in to play the one thing I remember.

It is the opening measures to my friend Martha's song "My Piano." She wrote it just before we both graduated high school, I to head off to Barnard and she to Yale, instead of conservatory. I was jealous, but she deserved it more than I did, and she didn't want to go, but it was her parents' dream for her come true, and an accomplishment after years of months in the hospital in Manhattan, recovering from kidney transplants, ice baths for her burning body, never allowed to turn into a woman's like our own from the heavy doses of steroids, and the dialysis. When we weren't even teenagers yet, we used to lie in bed together at night and listen to the sound of her blood, rushing through the shunt in her left wrist, thinking of marmalade skies and diamonds, strawberry fields forever, somewhat high from the colored markers we used to make our own psychedelic artwork for hours on end.

I hardly saw her after graduation, and then one afternoon a year or two after we had graduated from college, the friend that replaced her as my best friend called me in Washington to ask if she could come by where I would be taking care of the kids of friends of my family. She said she'd bring a bottle of wine; my mother had said that would be alright. Why, I had wondered all afternoon and into the evening, did my mother and she think I needed to get a little drunk? And why did my mother even know about this at all? An idea did come to me, and sitting on the walk in front of their Chevy Chase house, Ruth handed me the piece of newsprint I expected. I had known it. I only read the words that mattered. "Martha Blumberg died", followed by a date, more information I did not even see. I saw only the landscaping in the streetlight, and diamonds in the Chevy Chase sky.

I don't know the date. I don't know all the details. I talked to her mother again only many years later, when it had been 25 years since she and I graduated from high school, and I heard all that mattered.

"I miss her so much. Not a day goes by that I don't miss her," said her mother. She is alone. It was so unfair.

I placed my fingers on the keys and the notes came out sounding just like the song she wrote.

My piano
It's a symphony
When it sings
It bursts in harmony
My piano
When it sings for me

My piano, for me.
....

Standstill

Water lilies

Paralysis. In the house, anyway. Industry outside the house in the garden. If I were really going to call a halt to the work, I was going to take full advantage of it to at least do some of the annual work in the part I can do, and for which I need little to no help, and no workers: the garden.

Not that I wouldn't love some of each. Help and garden workers, that is.

June comes and the evenings stretch out until nearly eleven o'clock, offering those additional hours we claim we really need and want all year long to have a hope of getting everything done. I can tell you that for all those extra hours, more would be needed to get anywhere near getting everything done, and the rain's arrival, just as things are beginning to look rather inviting in the garden, doesn't help. You can have all the flowering shrubs you want, but without sunshine it is only dull; under the pouring rain, the invitation is off. The rain invited itself to Roland Garros and wrecked havoc with the early matches, making putting a roof over center court the main story.

The rain also invited itself into our garden, making watering everything unnecessary, but making enjoying the work impossible. If it gets hot, it will soon rain, and when it rains, it will pour.

My husband took his book out into the garden to read after returning with the baguette. I heard him sniffing, so I knew he was out there, and I peeked around the corner to see him in the deck chair in his motorcycle boots, black jeans, a sweater and his Northface jacket, suitable for skiing, looking for all the world like a man getting to be of "a certain age".

"Tu veux un foulard et un chapeau aussi?" I asked. He turned his head from Ken Follet and smiled.

"Il ne fait pas très chaud, tu sais." Yes, I knew it wasn't exactly hot out, but it wasn't cold, either. I looked at my light, 3/4 sleeve t-shirt and feet in sandals, and back at him.

"Il fait plutôt doux. T'es en train de tomber malade?" It was at least 20° C out. Was he, I suggested, possibly getting sick? He shook his head and came in to help set the table.

"Déjeunons-nous déhors?" he wondered, clearly hoping not, "parce qu'il fait un peu frais. On serait peut-être mieux à l'intérieur." Would we eat outdoors, he wondered aloud? Because it was a little chilly out; we might be better inside. I shook my head again, half tempted to go and get the thermometer and take his temperature. He carried the plates out to the table.

"Tu n'as pas froid comme ça?" he asked my son, who was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt and shorts at lunch. "Il ne fait pas très chaud."

"Non, ça va bien," said my son, and we all gazed at my husband. He looked at his daughter, who was wearing a light sweater over a sleeveless top. She raised her eyebrows enough to suggest that she was fine, as well. Was he going to ask anyway? He had removed his jacket.

"Nous allons tous très bien," I told him with a smile to suggest that he might be crazy, if he weren't sick. "Il fait plutôt doux, tu sais. Tu ne veux pas que j'aille te chercher ta veste?"

No, thank you, he said. I'll be alright without my jacket, he added, drawing his shoulders together for comfort.

It has been a long week for all of us. Between the temperature shifting from 33° C to 14°C in the space of an afternoon, sunshine giving way to drenching rain, his long days and the nights on duty, a concert in the middle of the week in far-away Paris, my guests, and Sam's upcoming bac, the worries that accompany being parents, and the worse ones that attach themselves to being in the situation of not being the parents of the same children, each enjoying the benefit of his or her own point of view and the certainty of its superiority, there is ample reason and opportunity to fall victim to an early summer cold, or depression anyway.

If you are I, that is. The one who is actually going to worry, because, and finally, it is easier than loving, which is all, some would say, that you really can do. I prefer concrete solutions. Real progress. Outcomes.

But, then so did my husband. For the "petit salon", at least. The kids, well, kids will take care of themselves, wood, on the other hand, cannot saw itself, sheetrock cannot install itself.

I worry about both.

But, that's not all. With guests coming, it was necessary to visit the guest rooms and take stock. The sheets to be washed, the towels placed in the armoir in the bathroom, the spiders -- alas -- to be vacuumed up. Maybe I would also move the table from the little room into the other, larger room, where it could serve as a desk. I tried (half-heartedly) to move the moving box filled with stuff from where the table would go. It wasn't budging. Forget the table. But -- what was that along the wall on the sisal carpeting? The new sisal carpeting. Was it -- mold?

Mold?

My eyes raced up the wall. There were -- blisters in the paint.

Blisters. In. The. Paint. The brand new paint job, finished in the winter, the paint ordered on-line from Flamant, and applied over painstakingly repaired walls. So, the shower was leaking again, but how could it be? We had just caulked it. I dialed my husband's beeper. I knew he was seeing patients. I was seeing red.

"Allo."

"C'est moi."

"Oui?" He was using his most pleasant voice, so the patient wouldn't imagine it was his wife. His wife sounding very, very aggravated.

"La douche dans la petite maison, tu l'as réparée, non?"

"Oui."

"Bon. Elle fuit à nouveau."

"Pardon?"

"La douche, elle fuit."

"Comment le sais-tu?" he asked very politely, giving away nothing to his very patient patient.

"Il y a de la moisissure le long du mur -- le nouveau jonc de mer -- et des cloques dans la peinture." That's how I knew it. Molded sisal carpeting along the wall adjoining the shower stall and blisters in the paint just above it is a pretty certain sign of a leak in the shower on the other side of the wall.

"Ah bon! Tu es sûre que ça vient de là et pas du toit?" I sighed. Yes, I was absolutely positive that this water damage did not come from the leaky roof, covered with the roofer's tarps until he can get here and replace the whole damn thing, which is what I told my husband.

"As-tu installé un bac sous la douche quand tu l'as installée?" I asked him, making sure to sound menacing.

"Ah, non."

Ah, no shower pan. That could do it.

"Je vais appeler le plombier pour qu'il la voie. Je n'en peux plus de cette douche, et on ne s'en sort pas." And not only the shower, but what appears so often to be ample opportunities to lose my mind in this house.

"D'accord. C'est bien."

So, what did I learn? Always call my husband and announce things while he is seeing a patient.

The very next morning, nearly on my way out, the plumber arrived. He did not think a shower pan was necessary, since it sits on a concrete slab, but he did point out where the caulk was cracking. Already. If new, professionally applied caulk didn't do it, then we'd talk about tearing everything up and installing a shower pan.

On his way back from the truck with the caulk and an assortment of other tools, he stopped to chat. We know each other very well, for a plumber and a homeowner. It's normal with this house, and ideal to stay on best relations. We talked about this and that, and then, suddenly, he said something that triggered an unpleasant memory: Georges (don't ask) calling me out to the spot just under the window above the entry toilet, where he pointed into a hole he had dug, and there was the sewer pipe, with a big hole in it.

"Je me suis dit qu'il était toujours plus humide dans cet endroit, alors je me suis permis de creuser, et j'ai trouvé ça, Madame Sisyphe!" He sounded so proud; he was saving us from our ignorance of a broken sewer pipe at our main toilet.

Imagine that. My worker, who is so very, very busy, had time to notice that it seemed unusually wet in this particular area right next to the cement mixer and the bags of chaux piled up, the monceau of sand, and not only to notice, but to dig a hole to see why. My, my, imagine that. Mon oeil, I had thought at the time, asking him to fill the hole back up, the all the popos and the pipi traveling just under the surface of the dirt right next to the house.

That was more than a year ago. I told our plumber about it, and we set to digging, and there it was, the broken PVC pipe.

"Et oui," said the plumber. It's really broken. He poked around some more and pointed out that there was a leak. A leak?

"Oui, ça fuit de quelque part," he looked up from the hole and up the wall, "il n'y a pas un autre toilet là haut?"

Yes, there is another toilet up there on the second floor, just above this one, but it has been condemned for several years, precisely because we couldn't stop the water from running into it. We headed upstairs to look. There was the soup spoon my husband had jammed into the mechanism in the wall to stop it from running. It was quiet. Avoiding looking at the black mold all over the walls in this space, the door to which remains sealed like the ark of the covenant (sort of like the dirt placed back over the broken sewer pipe), I glanced at the sink, filled with green stuff, the plumber's eyes tracking with mine (how did he know where I was going to look?), just as a drop of water hit the algae and then another and another in rapid succession.

"A-ha!" cried the plumber.

"Ah oui," acknowledged the homeowner, "je l'avais oublié ça. Pourriez-vous mettre tout ça dans votre planning? Je voudrais tout arracher, et vous pouvez couper l'eau. On verra pour leur remplacement, le lavabo et le toilette, une fois que j'aurai trouvé une solution pour ces murs." He smiled compassionately as we gazed at a crack, spreading into a hole in the wall behind the closet across the small bedroom.

Maybe this part of the house will just fall off, taking this moldy half-bath and the "petit salon" with it.

"Je reviendrai après le déjenuer réparer le tuyau," he said, and we said our good-byes, I heading up to Normandy for the afternoon, he heading to have lunch and return to repair our sewer line.

The next day, there was a much larger hole, and there in the bottom, the pipe, broken in at least 3 places. It had poured the previous afternoon. He'd had to stop. The following morning, he returned and took me to look more closely at the affair. He pointed to a round cap on a vertical pipe, telling me that was an access to the pipes, in case they became clogged. Normally, it sat a good 30 cm above the place where it had come to rest. Did someone, he ask me, drive a heavy piece of equipment, a truck perhaps, over the area? Because, something very heavy had squashed it flat and broken the pipes. I looked at the gate, not large enough for a small car, let alone a truck.

"Non," I shook my head, looking back to the mess at my feet, "seulement la bétonneuse." Just the cement mixer. And, maybe, years ago, his employer's digger, when they had dug the trench to lay the pipe to connect the rest of the house -- the kitchen and the showers -- to the sewer line.

What did it matter now? We were paying.

And we'll be paying for the millwork, too. I am going to have to make a set of drawings for the millwork in the entire lower house, including all the details, and get it priced. We need professional help, or we'll never get ourselves out of this.

Or, I'll never be happy.

Along with that, pricing for the entry, the walk and patios, and the main bath. Choices -- bad, sad choices of the compromise sort -- might have to be made.

And, I'll never be happy.

At least the sewage is running contained in nice plastic piping now.
....

Hell is

Work in (miserable) progress

A shared project.

A friend suggested that "getting a marriage license should involve a skills test, carpentry, plumbing & electrical, squishing spiders, etc." I am all for it. I would also add a compatibility test involving renovating a room together, all by yourselves. For those who really (so smugly) think they've got the perfect marriage planned, a sure bet, then the test would involve an entire house.

You think you're made for each other, do you? You think that love cures all, hm? You think that you admire and respect each other and control issues are for others, right? I'm sure they are. I am sure you will be very happy together.

I really am.

So were we. For about the space of our wedding afternoon. Radiant. Just like Fiona and Shrek. Then came marriage, the other's kids, and exes (that would be his), financial reality, voluntary loss of real and gainful employment and self-respect (a place to be right), culture -- oh, yeah, big time (remember, Fiona was happy to become a whatever Shrek is, which pretty much sums up how marriages work), and a home to renovate within that financial and cultural reality.

When Worlds Collide would be a good title for our marriage.

I picked up the wood yesterday, right? And I had given them really detailed drawings, right? And they were going to cut the wood, right? Well, they cut it, but so that my husband would have all the precision cuts to do at home, without the tools, or the patience. The idea was supposed to be to cut it so we would only have to assemble it. That was about all we could handle. I noticed first that they hadn't done the detail in the edge of the window sill. Then I realized all the planks and wood sections were square. I soldiered on in my hope, right to the edge of the cliff, where hope ends and faith begins.

Let's skip that part of the dialog. It's unpleasant, and I'd have to type my part in ALL CAPS, and not because my voice is high and squeaky like Owen Meany's, but because I ended up shouting. With the kitchen door near the street open.

"Ne crie pas," said my husband, making a move towards the open door. I thought of my neighbor slamming his gate door closed and shouting at someone in his family -- if not his entire family -- all the way across the street and into their garden across the way and decided they'd understand my losing it in my kitchen and shouting very naturally at my husband.

"Oui, d'accord, tu vois? Moi aussi, j'ai besoin de décharger mon stresse comme tu le fais en ralant tout le temps, alors je crie." He looked at me. He blinked. "J'en ai marre de tes 'je ne comprends rien' et de tes 'comme je voulais le faire'. Si tu sais le faire mieux que moi, et je te rappelle qu'on a commencé comme ça, mais cela n'a pas très bien fonctionné, tu le ferais toi-même, tout seul. Je me dégage de toute participation dans ce projet. Tu le finis comme tu veux, et si je n'en suis pas contente, ce ne serait pas pour longtemps."

Uh-oh. I was really angry. I ended reminding him that we'd already tried his way, and it hadn't worked very well, but if he didn't like mine, then he is welcome to find his own way because we cannot work together, I wash my hands of the room renovation; he can do it exactly as he pleases, and if I don't like it, then so what? I won't be around long enough to really care.

He returned to work, and I note that my plans are in the vicinity, on the deck chair by the minuscule work table. And then he appeared at my side, my plan in his hand.

"Tu t'es trompée ou je ne comprends pas?" Are you mistaken, or don't I understand?

I knew the answer to that already without looking, but I took the sheet of paper and turned my attention to it.

"Le placo-plâtre, il arrive où?" Where, he wanted to know, did the sheetrock arrive. he was certain I hadn't thought of that.

I pointed to the line on the plan and said, "Ici." All you have to do is look at the section, but I understand, he is not in the building trades at all, but he knows better than anyone in them, surtout sa femme chérie.

Do I sound bitter? I hate that.

"Oh." He walked back out the door.

He returned a little later.

"Ta planche de 13 mm, elle arrive sur le verre?"

"Comment?" On the glass? Why would the jamb go just to the glass of the window?

"Elle va jusqu'au verre?" I thought hard about it. Vert. Not verre. Besides, you drink from a verre, the window is a vitre, which is not a homonym for verre. He meant did it arrive where the paint ended on the frame, or before it.

Reluctantly, I followed him into the petit salon, where I was sure to be made an idiot in about two judging sentences.

"Parce que," he began to explain, "ça arrive ici." He pointed about half a centimeter past the line where the green paint ended and the bare frame showed. "Je suppose ça ne fait rien?"

Now, you'd be surprised, but "je suppose" can be fighting words. Sort of like, "I gather". There is a whiff of sarcasm that clings to them when used in certain circumstances. Circumstances strikingly like the present one.

"Non, ça ne fait rien, surtout parce que la partie du cadre de la fenêtre de l'autre côté peinte en vert est plus large, alors ça serait plutôt symétrique." No matter that the painted part of the window frame was wider on the left, making having the jamb farther out on the right not pose a problem; he really wanted me to see that I had to have measured incorrectly. I was pretty sure I hadn't, but it really wasn't worth it.

Why, why in God's name do they push us to this to get anything done at all? Best to stick to the kitchen and painting one's nails.

Ain't no ze-en when he's here
and he's always here too much when he comes home.

Separate homes to renovate, perhaps? The struggle itself is enough to fill a man's heart. Remember, one must imagine Sisyphe happy.

I think I'll go take it out on the hedge.
....

Testing a marriage

The wood, screws, angles and color-coded plans

"Je ne comprends rien," he announced, with a tone of refusal laced with rejection, squatting back on his heels in front of the pile of wood I brought home from Comptoir des Bois and the plans on which I had just finished giving each piece a letter, which I noted on the step-by-step, IKEA-like instructions for construction I had labored to make this afternoon, as well as on each piece of real wood, and color-coding them, coloring my plan, section and elevation detail like a coloring book. I didn't know really what more I could do to make it plainer. I hate it when he says that. He sounds like his children, which is what I told him.

I no longer ask, "Did you try?" It's just a little too antagonistic and schoolmarmish. This evening, I took another tactic.

"Je n'aime pas quand tu dis ça. Tu as l'aire de tes enfants." I tried not to sound to negative or accusatory. Just stating a fact in the most fact-stating of ways, while communicating my own refusal to accept his.

The line was drawn. He had already taken me into the petit salon to show me how he had tried to do it and why it didn't work. It was the nylon anchors that didn't hold in the wall, he told me, and that wouldn't change with my plan. It was when he tried to nail something to them that his wood piece fell off the wall.

You need to imagine several lengths of wood, glued and nailed, or some such, to one another along their lengths, and this sticking out from the wall at 60°, attached by nylon anchors (remember those?) he inserted through holes he had pre-drilled in the first length of wood. There was nothing supporting the end that stuck out from the wall, but it did feature a nicely cut triangular section of wood, against which the sheetrock (plasterboard for the UK English speakers among you) would lay.

"J'aimerais pouvoir utiliser au moins ça," he said, showing it to me. "C'est très bien et ce n'était pas facile à faire." I shook my head. We weren't going to use it if we followed my plans, which I had labored to make, and for which we had all the wood we needed, at a certain cost, as well, mind you. I threw a small fit.

He didn't press the point.

"De toute manière," I pointed out, "on peut utiliser de la colle aussi entre le cadre et le mur, rajouter des chevilles à frapper supplémentaire, et puisque le bois fini est incorporé dans le cadre avant de le fixer au mur, tu n'auras ni à le frapper avec un marteau ni à le percer pour fixer les tablettes." Which is to say that since the whole thing is pre-built, it can be glued and fixed in place with the nylon anchors, and we won't have to bang nails into it or drill it for screws to attach the finish wood for the jambs later. In other words, it ought to hold. It is, in fact, far sturdier.

It's also true that it is a bit hefty. Maybe it will need some angles to support it on the wall, too.

I really hope it will work because I really, really don't want to find out what divorce court is like. I hate apartment hunting, and the frogs might take it badly.

It's getting dark, and he is still sawing. By hand.
....

Back in blue

Water Iris reflections
last evening

Guess what I'm wearing under my bleus de travail? That's right, as little as is comfortably possible. It is hot and melanoma stinks, but the Privet hedges have to get pruned. I wish they made them in white UVA and UVB protection nearly sheer, highly breathable, and nearly indestructible cotton.

I started last evening, when the sun went down, ironing in front of the women's semi-finals at Roland Garros so as to not feel quite as guilty. From 7 pm until 10 pm, when I was finally sick to death of hacking through branches and leaves with my dull electric hedge trimmer, trying to cut back the hedges to a sort of reasonable size, but still had light by which to work, and went up to make myself a petit punch with what was left of the vieux rhum.

I also put an entire lime and a dash of water in there, just to take care of any guilt there might be associated with this little pleasure and make it easier to put up with Desperate Housewives on the television. My stepdaughter's not-so-guilty pleasure. "Desp" (as the French call it) and riding.

[I'm waiting for Real Housewives of Possum Trot, personally. Then I'll stuff a wedge of lime in my beer can and settle back for some real tee-vee!]

I try not to make a lot of noise about "Desp", and keep writing checks and driving her to and from the riding lessons. IDB. Or, ILTDB, as in this case: ignore less than desirable behavior. It wouldn't be so bad if only she'd read a book and had enough vocabulary to handle more than "Desp" doublé en français.

So, the rest remains to be done, and there are the men's semi-finals for the entire afternoon. The way Berdych and Nadal have been playing, though, it might be dispatched in straight sets for each.

The little window frame and trim is ready at the wood shop, too. Sisyphe is becoming very seriously concerned for her hearing because her son walked into the living room, from where he had been half-heartedly studying for the bac and more intensively sunning his torso, where she was ironing shirts and watching (as best one can while ironing dress shirts) Jankovic be hammered into retirement from this year's Roland Garros by Stosur's unbelievable service, forehand and backhand, and said, "Mom, hasn't your phone been ringing?"

"Hm?" replied Sysphe.

"Your cell phone, I've been hearing it ringing. Distantly. Don't you hear it?" Sisyphe swiveled her head in the direction of his voice and noticed he'd put his shorts back on, wondering if he were so modest as that.

"No, but you do?" He nodded.

"It's like it's coming from somewhere sort of far away." He headed for the staircase.

"Could you check to see if it's by my bedside?" asked Sisyphe, walking in the direction where he had just disappeared up past the banister, and spying her suede jacket. "Oh, wait. I think it's in my jacket pocket." Sisyphe recalled that she had not taken it back out when she returned from "Roland" the evening before and felt the jacket on that side.

"Yup, it's here." She checked for messages. 4 calls. The first one was from 5:09 pm. Le Comptoir des Bois. The rest were from her messagerie. Sisyphe glanced at her watch. 6:54 pm. Merde! They had called, and she had missed it, and the phone had been not more than 3 meters behind her the whole time! She hit the call button and heard it ring.

"Allo?"

"C'est Yveline?"

"Oui."

"C'est Madame Sisyphe. Je vois que vous avez appelé il y a bientôt une heure, et j'ai raté l'appel!"

"Oui!" (we get along famously) "J'ai répondu à votre email pour vous dire que le cadre pour le petite fenêtre est prèt et celui pour la grande fenêtre sera prèt en début de la semaine prochaine."

She knew. She knew how much pressure mon cher mari has been putting on his très chère Sisyphe (who we know can handle it, right?).

"C'est fou! C'est mon fils qui entendait mon portable sonner, mais je n'ai rien entendu de tout et il était juste derrière moi! Mon fils l'a entendu de dehors, et maintenant il est trop tard pour venir le chercher!" She laughed.

"Vous pouvez venir à 7:30 demain matin et votre mari le trouvera quand il se réveillera," she suggested conspiratorially, the best she could come up with in the present circumstances.

Let Sisyphe add that once she had gone to get something at the Comptoir des Bois, and while they finished it in the shop ran over to Point P (the one where the guy flirted with her and suggested gluing wood trim to metal angles, as if). When she returned, it was later than she had expected; they had closed 8 minutes before, but there was Yveline, sitting in her car in front of the locked gate, waiting for Sisyphe to come back so she could give her the oak threshhold they had just finished up in the shop.

Sisyphe sighed, "Non, ça n'ira pas. Il se lève trop tôt. Il est déjà parti de la maison à 8 heures." She heard Yveline nod sympathetically. "Et ben, je peux lui dire que je suis sourde. Ca devrait mieux passer."

Yeah, that should do it, I thought. Tell him I am deaf and can't hear my own phone ringing just behind me, while my son can hear it from outside, despite the birds signing and the frogs croaking. Maybe he'll be more worried about possible nerve deafness than progress in the petit salon.

So, was he? Let's say that it was an amusing distraction, distraction being the key word.
....

A Roland

Rafa
on the red clay at Roland Garros
Men's Simples 1/4 final against Nicolas Almagro
June 2, 2010

What am I doing here today, home, not "à Roland"? It was my first Grand Slam tournament, and it was exceptional. Entering Philippe Chatrier for the first time was something like walking inside the Notre-Dame Cathedral or Yankee Stadium (the old Yankee Stadium, of course) for the first time. Roland Garros is stunning, impeccable. The sunshine helps a lot, too. Ask anyone who wandered around its lovely, leafy avenues and walks the last few days.

And I don't even play tennis.

I watch tennis. A lot of tennis. And, today I was going to get to see current number 1 Serena Williams play Samantha Stosur, who has shot up from the shadows of doubles tennis to seize the WTP 7th place ranking this year.

Serena and Venus -- and everyone between them and her -- had best watch out, though, because Sam Stosur won't be number 7 for long the way she played yesterday. That said, Serena certainly won't be the top-seeded woman's tennis player for long, either, if she continues to play yesterday as she did. She looked lost on the court.

I had raced through finishing the details for the window trim and the framing for it to send off to the wood shop before heading "à Roland" (that is how the tennis snobs say it, said my husband, kissing me good-bye yesterday morning, accent on the "Ro" of "Ro-land"). I was taking my bike in. No traffic worries, no parking issues. No excess fat in the travel time. If my husband still kisses me good-bye in the morning, that is not to say that he doesn't express his frustration with our progress in the "petit salon".

By early last week, he had resorted to swearing and breaking his work, and so I had thought it wise to take on resolving the problem of how to attach and support the window trim. Something I should have done from the beginning, rather than not anticipating and leaving him to figure his way through a nightmare.

When I had shown the guys at Point P the plans, they said there were angles specially made to support window and door trim. When I finally saw those angles weeks later (they didn't have them in stock, but it didn't seem pressing at the time; we'd solve that problem when we got to it... manana. It usually works.), I realized instantly, on the spot that they were all wrong for the job. That's when another guy at the other Point P, the one even my stepdaughter could see was flirting with me, suggested I use shears to cut up metal framing to make angles and glue the wood trim to them, setting me, unbeknownst to myself yet, on a course for my nervous breakdown in Leroy Merlin.

Glue the wood trim to them. Pshaw.

My husband had seemed relieved for the first couple of days, when he returned home from work on that Wednesday evening last week, ready to attack the problem again, and I announced, "Non, J'ai une solution. Tu n'as rien à faire. Je suis allée voir le monsieur au Comptoir des Bois, et on va nous faire un cadre. Je vais leur donner les détails." He had settled on the sofa, Roland Garros on the TV.

He remained, surprisingly, patient and calm through the "lost" weekend of work.

"Ca va aller plus vite une fois qu'on aura le cadre prèt à fixer en place," I cooed, hoping to sound reassuring and make him forget about the precious hours and days slipping past.

It worked. At least it did for a few days, until he determined that waiting is worse than trying and failing and swearing. Why, he wanted to know, was it taking so long?

"Nous ne sommes pas leurs seuls clients, même si on m'aime bien, tu sais. Ils ont plein de boulot dans l'atelier." The shop, I explained, was working full-out, and we aren't there only clients, as much as they like me, which is to say so very modestly a lot. It's mutual. I just wish they used poplar.

He grumbled a little more on Sunday, and I very possibly served him a finger's whisky and some saucisse sèche and olives, leading him to the sofa.

Monday, it wasn't so easy to distract him.

"Alors, on a le cadre?" Think fast.

"Uh -- non."

"Pourquoi non?"

"Parce qu'ils n'ont eu les détails que vendredi soir --"

"Ils travaillent le samedi, n'est-ce pas?"

"Oui, mais l'atelier est fermé le lundi. Ils coupent du bois de lundi au vendredi, est il n'y a que calcun au comptoir de vente le samedi matin, alors, on me dit demain." I told a little falsehood there. I didn't really think they'd have it the next day. He'd sounded, the man who runs the place, rather doubtful about that, but since I'd have to go to Roland Garros on Wednesday, it seemed it wouldn't be much of an issue in the end.

I handed him another finger of whisky and the rest of the saucisse sèche, the last few black olives from the pouch.

Tuesday, I was frantically trying to finish the same details for the large window, hoping to take them to the shop and pick up the framing with the finish trim for the small window. But, that was the day my brain felt much too small.

I spent the day in front of my laptop at the dining table in my pyjamas and a cashmere sweater, fighting the chill of the rain that had fallen for several days, interrupting play at Roland Garros and soaking the freshly bloomed English roses in the border I could see through the kitchen window, the William Morris and Ingenious Mr. Fairchild, the Anne Boleyn and Pegasus, the Kathryn Morley and -- oh! -- the peonia orientalis I had saved from beneath some other plant and replanted two years ago, now much fuller and producing a number of buds that had opened without my even noticing. My only exercise was the frequent trips I made to and from the petit salon, taking measurements of the big window that, oddly, seemed to contradict each other.

It was only after two or three to remeasure the same thing that it finally occurred to me to measure the other side of the window. 82 cm.

How could that be? The other side was 83.9 cm. I was sure of that. I measured it again anyway. 83.9 cm.

The window was -- crooked? I grabbed the level and held it along the bottom of the window frame. The little bubble located itself way over to the right side of it's little window.

No.

I held it up along the side frame, and the little bubble was nowhere near the center of the two marks in the little window.

No.

Yes. The window had been installed close to 1° off the plumb.

Damn.

This means that if you install the frame for the trim and the trim itself on the vertical, the jambs of the trim will start out on the window frame, but by the time they get near the top of the large window, it will sit out past the frame on the right side, closer to the hinges on the left.

Damn.

Do you install the whole thing titled 1° to the left, or do you bring the jambs in closer, enough to just barely hit the edge of the frame at the masonry opening at the top?

I decided on the second, because you have to decide something, and rolled the dice. Hours had passed since I sat down to do what I thought would take a morning. I was still there in my pyjamas when my husband came home.

"Alors, on a le cadre?" He is, have I mentioned?, dependable.

"Non, j'ai travaillé toute la journée sur les détails pour la même chose pour la grande fenêtre, et j'ai raté le Comptoir." He nodded.

He nodded?

Yeah, I know. It was amazing, but he nodded and that was it.

Wednesday, I jumped out of bed, raced to my laptop, slammed out the JPGs to send to the Comptoir, in between doing the laundry, collecting everything I'd need to a day in the sun or rain, or both, at Roland Garros, printing my e-ticket, making sure I had my rain gear for the motorcycle (just in case), and made it out the bottom gate at 12:20 pm for a "shortly after 1 pm" rendez-vous at the Mousquetaires entrance on Avenue Gordon Bennett.

Just outside Mantes on the A13, once I hit cruising speed of 130 km (let us say), my scarf floated up from where it was tucked into my suede jacket, and began to tickle my chin and nose. It was not knotted. It could, therefore, fly away, and I really needed it for the sun during the matches, now that I have to hide in a chador, according to my dermatologist. At the same time, my bangs came lose and began to poke my eyes and the bag containing my rain gear, tied to the reservoir in front of me (which isn't on a F650CS) with a bungie cord started to flap in the wind. All I needed was enough of that for the thing to work its way lose, and my 100 euro (on sale) rain jumpsuit would fly away, too.

Damn again.

After using my left hand to try to secure the bag and then to push my scarf down into my jacket for the 40th time, I finally stuck it in my teeth, slowed and headed for the rest stop. Odd the number of times I need to stop there, or ask my husband to do the same when we are on his bike, to fix something or another. I am thinking, in particular, of shaving my head to keep the hair out of my eyes. Taking off again, I raced on to the Avenue de la Porte d'Auteuil, found a place to tuck my motorcycle between some cones on a traffic separator, the last in a growing line of motorcycles and scooters doing the same, changed into my sandals, stowed my gear and headed for les Mousquetaires entrance.

Roland Garros! En fin!

It is exciting. It is exciting like it is to get off the tube in Wimbledon and imagine it teeming with tennis fans. Storied names, like Yankee Stadium or Wrigley Field.

[Note that I did not say Fenway Park. Ahem.]

My friend was there, where she said she'd be, waiting for me, and we headed off to decide where to get sustenance food to take up into the court, since my problems had made lunching civilly impossible -- damn, again --, and use the rest rooms near Le Village, where a group of really excited papparazzi were swarming up on a deck. Who could it be?

"I wish we could go up and see!" said my friend. I looked at the tournament employees lined up across the steps to the entrance terrace and shook my head.

"That is never going to happen. We're not ever going to know who it is," I laughed, just as an unmistakable head of hair moved past, surrounded by cameras.

"It's Amélie Mauresmo," I pointed to the dirty blond long hair, blown-dry and attractive now that she is retired from the courts.

"Is that -- Marcos Baghdatis?" breathed my friend.

I scanned every face visible, hoping. There was one that could maybe have been Baghdatis, but --

"If that's him there, then he looks sort of old for a pro tennis player," I said.

We walked on in our search for the café she had spotted the year before, never found it, got cash (of course there are ATM machines at a BNP Parisbas sponsored tennis tournament, silly!), made it through the ladies' room, got food and headed to our seats. Philippe Chatrier. I was going to Philippe Chatrier.

You're not too jaded to be excited, noted myself.

"Not at all," I confirmed. "I am here, and it's unbelievable!" We handed the young women in their Roland Garros tenues our tickets, they made very small and precise rips -- nothing is haphazard or inelegant at Roland Garros! -- in the top corners of our tickets, and we made our way up the stairs to the last staircase, Escalier 1, to our seats, and there, directly in front of me at the far end of the court was the France Télévision broadcast "terrasse", the long bank of television commentators' windows, the stands, and, I caught my breath, the stunning brick-red of the fabled center court with a figure in turquoise at the far end, Serena Williams, and another in navy blue at our nearer end, Samantha Stosur.

Serena and Samantha!

I have defended Serena Williams and cheered for her. I have admired her accomplishments in tennis and don't like to hear women or Rafael Nadal trashed by my husband, but yesterday, I had to start asking myself, "Can this be Serena?"

The New York Times can call this match a "fiercely fought" one, but I saw a Serena Williams who seemed at a loss to know how to play someone like Sam Stosur, who played tennis with all of the confidence of a major key and grace notes. Correctly, they attributed Serena's keeping up at all to a few exceptionally well-timed aces (unlike Nadal, who managed 3 back-to-back later). Once, the tigress appeared, and hope swelled, but how could you really not cheer for Sam, who never let down? Whose economical shot seemed to pack tons more power and speed? Whose cross-court slices and passing shots left Serena watching along with the rest of us? Who constructed her points like she was playing chess?

I wanted to watch Serena do it again, but she didn't. It wasn't a "bad" match, but it was a disappointing one for all that Serena Williams ought to have been able to deliver, and didn't.

Could it be that she just isn't used to someone not falling apart in front of her aura and power? asked Myself, during a particularly gritty moment in the match.

"Maybe," I replied. "Maybe. In any case, Sam isn't backing down, is she? And she's got more than enough smarts, shots and determination to do it. Not to mention energy."

[Serena does look much trimmer in person, though, I'll have you know.]

I turned to my friend and shared my suspicion, "Could it be that Serena just isn't used to anyone not failing to respond to her tennis and mental strength on the court?"

"Maybe," nodded my friend. "You can really see that she was a doubles player. The way she plays the net, her serve. She has a classic tennis, like Justine, with all the smart shots, and not just that baseline power tennis, smashing the ball."

My friend blames Serena Williams and Maria Sharapova for today's tennis, played by everyone coming onto the circuit. She loves Henin. Stosur took down Justine on her way to clearing Serena out of her path to a Grand Slam title and their number one spots.

"Maybe," she added after a moment, "Stosur will change tennis. I have been waiting for someone to come along and take it back."

Maybe she will. In any event, Serena Williams didn't have enough arms to outsmart her on the court, or the stamina to chase down those rapid-fire cross-court slices, fore or backhand.

A NYT reader thought the same thing:

This is unfortunately not a real shock. If Serena wants to win this tournament again before she retires, she will have to get into better physical shape like she was in 2002, learn to construct points better and generally not expect opponents to crumble.

Or, as The Australian put it so poetically (for Serena):

In the space of three days, the 26-year-old Queenslander has proved she can overcome the game's extremes: for Williams is to Justine Henin, Stosur's fourth-round victim, what an 18-wheel truck is to a sports car.

Just as Stosur was able to beat the fleet-of-foot and crafty Belgian with her own game of judicious angles on Monday, last night the Australian showed her power game could more than match the brute force of the American, particularly on clay.

Adding just a few paragraphs later:

After gaining the break, Stosur did to Williams what the American usually does to her opponents: she monstered the world No 1. The Australian won the next eight points with a flurry of winners to claim the first set.

"she monstered the world No. 1". Yup. That's what I saw. Stosur can do it all.

Nadal, though, and Almagro! That was another matter. From the first service return I saw Almagro hit, I knew we were in for a two-way tennis match, even if the 3-0 score up on the big screen when we arrived to take our seats, after a trip to the restroom (if it were going 5 sets...), to get more water and check out the t-shirts in the Lacoste boutique near the tribunes, and the brief wait until they changed sides, seemed to announce otherwise. Like Serena, Rafa can take time to settle into a match. Break him early, but don't get too excited about it, or at your own peril. We wanted 5 sets; we didn't want to see Rafa lose. We got 3 sets; we didn't see Rafa lose. It was electric tennis.

They exchanged a break in the first set, and did not at all in the second to finish them 6-7, 6-7 for Nadal, two tiebreakers in which he outscored Almagro 15-4, while they went 103-101 in the rest of the match, but he broke Almagro for 5-4 to serve for the match, and two match points later, when Almagro sent a backhand shot down the line long, he tore off his bandana and shook out his hair, victorious in straight sets.

Never mind that that backhand shot went long, he has one of the most beautiful backhand swings in tennis.

My bike was there waiting for me, in the lowering sun at nearly 8:30 pm. I put my boots back on, knotted my scarf, and turned around the Porte d'Auteuil to head back out on the A13, making plans for next year.

Oh, did I mention that I ran into chair umpire Kader Nouni, and shook his hand?

"Hey! You're the chair umpire! I'm sorry I forget your name," I said, holding out my hand.

"Yeah, I'm the chair umpire," he said, taking my hand and shaking it, just as someone who looked rather important came up behind me and said, "Ah, ravi de vous voir!"

"Ravi de vous voir, aussi," replied Kader Nouni, taking the older gentleman's hand in one and his shoulder in the other. He's officiating at the men's semi-finals tomorrow.



This morning, my husband asked me, "Tu vas chez le Comptoir des Bois?" Persistent and focused, isn't he?

"Oui, mon chéri, j'y vais."

Right now, I am off to start pruning the primrose hedges that are choking off our access to the pool and the motorcylces down in the bottom garden.

Update: It appears that Richard Williams agrees with me about the Number 1 spot, only he's got Aravane Rezai in mind for it. See the interview on the Roland Garros site. Maybe. That's what I thought, too, watching Madrid, but if I were a betting Sisyphe, I'd put my money on Sam Stosur.
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