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.
....