We’re off to the airport this morning after our lovely week in the Bahamas. The best thing about a family vacation when your kids are older is the opportunity to have every meal with them.  We rarely eat together when they are home,  but we always dine together when we travel.

This morning, as we had our last breakfast on a terrace overlooking the sea, we remarked on the other people who were dining – many of whom we had given special nicknames.  We’re  inveterate people watchers (and mockers) we four, and had been reporting back to each other every day on the antics of Rude Guy, who had ambushed the manager with a torrent of abuse within minutes of arriving here, coincidentally, at the same time that we arrived. So appalled were we by his behavior that we all went out of our way to prove to the staff that we had no connection to him and his frowning wife.  There was much rolling of eyes and glaring from our camp and ridiculous overtipping out of some sort of guilt by association.  We had arrived on this quiet, idyllic island on the same plane as these griping sourpusses and we felt that we owed the island some sort of compensation. Then there was dear, dear Doting Dad, who spent an entire week walking around cuddling and nuzzling his baby daughter, who couldn’t have been more than three months old.  The handsome, middle-aged man and his daughter could be found rocking under a shady tree by the pool,  or strolling along the pathways (she held in the crook of his arm with her plump cheek pressed to his) or under an umbrella in the sand – she kicking her feet in the air, he smiling at her, helplessly in love. When he carried her into the restaurant one evening, the two of them were dressed in crisp colorful, matching resort wear – hers with ballooning diaper-concealing pantaloons.  I told the kids, excitedly,  that I thought he was a single dad who had decided to adopt the baby or have her by surrogate, but the kids told me they’d seen the mom reading by the pool each day, alone.  She became Lazy Mom to us.  Of course there was wise Leo, the Tennis Whisperer and hunky Calvin, his son.  And on the beach, each day, a procession of strangers paraded past.  Young honeymooners, old marrieds, pairs of women -deep in conversation, athletes running in the sand, swimmers, dealers in jewelry (or worse), laughing children and tired parents – all revealing truths that have been lost to us these cold months up north – hard and beautiful truths about youth and age.   The beach walkers moved along the water’s edge like a patient migrating herd, their heads bent slightly into the wind, their bosoms, bellies, scars, tattoos, pregnancies, cellulite, hair, muscles, wrinkles and veins all unabashedly exposed, like imperfect but delightful  offerings to the merciless sun and to anybody else who cared to look.

Somebody very kindly posted my (Leo) horoscope yesterday or the day before and I’ve been scanning all the comments because I’m wondering if it warned that I would break a tooth and then a computer in one weekend.  I still can’t find the comment with the horoscope, but did get a new laptop today. Mine has been on it’s way out for a long time. It didn’t close and I had to tape it shut when I traveled with it. I guess you’re not supposed to keep dropping the laptops on the ground.  And it wasn’t really my tooth that broke, on Friday, just a veneer. On one of my front teeth. Oh, you thought those were my real teeth?  No, no, my real teeth have been filed down to scary little nubbins in order to make way for the veneers. You see, I had a less than perfect smile.  I had a big gap between my front teeth that somehow looked cool until I was 35, and then, overnight, made me look like a witch.  I’m not sure how that happened but the exact same thing happened to a friend of mine when she turned 35.

But yesterday nothing broke.  Denis and I went to see our daughter play her last high school hockey game.  Holly came along. She is sometimes timid in unfamiliar places so I’m trying to expose her to stuff.  The last time I took her to a hockey game she shivered under my coat, so this time I found a little hoodie for her.

Yes, it’s a hockey sweatshirt! I found it on a stuffed bear.

Lord almighty, ain’t she a cute ‘un, though? (Still missing part of tooth).

She rode on Denis’s lap on the way to the game.

And she rooted for Dev’s team.

Sorry, the hockey photos all came out a little blurry, but that’s our Dev with her stick on the ice (I think).

GO BIG RED!

Last night’s chat was great fun.  Have spent the morning looking for the “Blaize” reference, which Alan insists is the name of the young Mrs. Mrs. De Winter .  Still haven’t found it.

But now we must discuss something more important than all that. We need to talk about me.  At what point does one become a crazy dog lady?  After 4 dogs? 5?  We have 50 acres – a small farm -which makes 5 dogs not seem entirely crazy, but all the dogs prefer to spend most of their time on my bed-desk, which even I know is crazy.

Here’s the thing. I met another dog.   I’ve been visiting shelters and meeting dozens and dozens of dogs over the past few weeks, and I’m not one to fall for every dog I see.  In fact, I really don’t want most dogs I see, even the most beautiful, young and friendly.  But the other day, while visiting the site of the new facilities for The Simon Foundation, a wonderful rescue organization that I’ll  blog about soon, I met Raven.  Stephanie Ferguson, the director of the Simon Foundation is fostering Raven in her home and this is what she has to say about her:

“Raven a 2-year old American Staffordshire Terrier, was confiscated from a home in December 2009. Until that day, she had spent her entire life bearing puppies in the basement. She is a beautiful dog, even though someone did a really bad job of cropping her ears with a pair scissors.

Three of Raven’s housemates (Sydney, Spike, and Annabelle) came with her to The Simon Foundation. None of the dogs had ever been socialized with humans, and they were terrified of their new environment. They spent the first several weeks cowering in their pens, not making any eye contact with the staff. None of the dogs knew how to walk on a leash, so trying to get them out of the pens for exercise and socialization was a stressful experience for everyone.

While fearful, once Raven was out of her pen, she loved to be held and petted. She craved affection, and a life she never before knew existed.

One day we received an application for Sydney and Spike. Because the dogs didn’t show well at the kennel, we decided to take them to a storefront that we use for events and showings. On a whim we decided to bring Annabelle and Raven so they could get out and have a little reunion with their friends. We are so glad we did, because the Raven that was unveiled was a wonder to us all.

Upon seeing her friends, Raven expressed immense joy and playfulness. She ran around with the pack and even approached the people in the room. It was amazing to watch, and gave us hope that Raven could be adopted sooner, rather than later.

A staff member took Raven home and discovered she doesn’t just like other dogs, she also likes cats and children! It was decided that she would be fostered by another staff member so she could be integrated into a home environment and learn how to “be a dog”. She needed to learn how to walk on a leash, up and down stairs, go outside to go to the bathroom, and other basic skills that would help facilitate a successful adoption.

It didn’t take long before Raven’s true personality started to reveal itself. She has the calm, mature demeanor of Cesar Milan’s “Daddy”, who recently passed away. She is extremely intuitive and maternal, perhaps from repeatedly whelping litters.

Raven loathes the cold (and especially the rain) so she needs a sweater to keep her warm. She has learned to walk well on a leash, go up and down stairs, and she’s pretty well housebroken. She likes to ride in the car and pretty much sleeps on a dog bed the entire trip. We do not allow her jump on the furniture, but if you let her, she would love to snuggle with you on the couch while you watch TV. She’s no longer afraid of people (maybe a little shy), but definitely not afraid.

She has been trained to sleep in a crate at night. She didn’t like it at first, because she doesn’t like to be alone, but now she goes right in and sleeps the night away under a soft fleece blanket.

Raven is highly adoptable to anyone who has other pets and children. She would do best in a home that has at least one other dog for her to play with, and someone who will either take her with them wherever they go, or who is around a lot, because she does not like to be left alone.

If you can offer Raven the home she so deserves, please visit The Simon Foundation website at www.thesimonfoundation.org to submit an online Application to Adopt. Her friend
Annabelle is also still available.”

So that’s Raven’s story. We haven’t adopted her yet. Denis will meet her tomorrow, But Stephanie brought Raven over to meet my girls yesterday. I had a bit of trepidation about this, I must admit. She’s a pit bull and they are more inclined to fight, generally, than, say, a Labradoodle..  Female dogs can be aggressive toward each other, but my dogs never fight. They take bones away from each other, eat out of each others’ bowls, etc. I didn’t know if Raven had ever fought other dogs (I was told she was taken from a crack house). Daphne, our pack leader has been known to growl at dogs who have come to our property and whose energy she doesn’t like, so I was worried that if she growled, Raven would be triggered to attack and there would be a tragedy.

But Raven and Stephanie arrived while we were outside and Daphne wandered over to them her tail wagging slowly. Raven was on a leash, which can make some dogs very defensive when confronted by a loose dog, But Raven was mellow, wagging her tail, her head lowered. Soon all of my girls were sniffing Raven, everybody seemed to be admiring her and then we went inside and let them all off-leash together.

Well, I won’t bore you with all the details, but Raven loves to play with other dogs. She LOVED the puppy and Holly loved her. They played for an hour, at least. She’s very short and compact, so she’s easier for the puppy to play with than Lulu, whose size can be overwhelming to the puppy. But she’s so strong that she can play tug-of-war with Lulu, which none of our other dogs want to do because she’s so powerful that they get flung into the air when she shakes her head.

So what do you all think? Will you stop reading my blog if I adopt her, because you will then know for sure what you have long suspected – that what you are reading is the rantings of a lunatic? A dog lady? Or will you admire me for my bravery and kindness, bringing yet another 4-legged creature into our home to live out its days with us?

PS – we have had 5 dogs before, and two of them were Irish Wolfhounds

PPS (PSS?) – we really would like to spend more time in the city and traveling once Dev leaves for college in the fall.

Yesterday I returned from the city just in time to feed the horses.  As soon as I parked the car, I opened the door to the house and the dogs came tumbling out and we all started jogging up to the barn.

The horses get very excited at feeding time.  If they are in the lower field and see the dogs and me approach they come galloping up the hill and meet us at the fence:

Yesterday, however, as I approached their fence, they did their usual canter up the hill, but when they reached the top, still about 20 feet away from the barn, they all came to a slamming halt.  Then, their necks raised like giraffes, their ears pricked forward and their eyes wide with alarm, they started blowing and snorting with fright.  They were staring at a spot just above my head – at the field behind me it seemed, and suddenly they all wheeled around at once and galloped back down the hill.  I didn’t even look behind me.  I just ran into the barn, the dogs tearing in after me.  After the discussion here yesterday I was sure there was a pack of coyotes in that field, or worse – a bear.

I peered out from the barn door and looked at the field opposite and saw nothing.  The dogs were sniffing around the floor of the barn for mice.  I called Daphne outside, made her look at the field, but she was uninterested, so I knew there wasn’t a giant predator.  I filled the horses’ buckets with grain and went downstairs, to the lower level of the barn where the horses’ stalls are, and filled their buckets.  Usually this will create a stampede into the barn, but when I opened the barn door, the horses, who had tentatively wandered back up the hill, again, gaped above me in horror, and then galloped down the hill.  At this point I was thinking ghost.  There was clearly something unGodly hovering above my head that had spooked the horses.  I looked up, but all I could see was the fuzzy fringe of the fur hat that I had worn up to the barn (it’s fake fur, relax).  The hat that I sometimes wear in the city and to hockey games but never in the country.  The hat that, I now realized completely altered my silhouette for the horses and what they saw, standing in the door of the barn, was a two legged beast with a bulbous fur head.  Some kind of horse-eating manimal.

This is the hat. The photo was taken at the winter classic hockey game in Boston and I’m eating pizza, not horse, but how could my dear beasts know this?  I was unrecognizable to them in the hat.  Either that, or they were just refusing to be seen near me when I wear it, like the rest of my family.

Anyway, I took the hat off and called them. They stared at me from afar, trembling in fright.  I tried to approach, but again they wheeled away and trotted off.  I left the barn doors open, thinking they’d come in on their own once I left.  Hours later, I returned to the barn, hatless, and only then, with some very gentle coaxing, was I able to get them to come into the warm barn, out of the cold, for their supper.

The horses have confirmed what my family has been telling me since I bought that hat.  It’s scary.

But it’s so warm.

The Lift Trucks Gallery sent me this short video that they made of last night’s reading. If you don’t blink, at the very end, you will see me up at the mike. But as the others have said, the most fun was (for me) before the event, and (for them) afterward.

I arrived at our designated meeting spot, Tazza Cafe, and as one of the others stated, within minutes, our screeching and cackling and guffawing had driven the other patrons away. Most had arrived before me and Tracy very graciously offered to buy me a cup of tea and then we all got to gabbing, and honestly, it felt like I was with family.

Here’s stuff I learned about the people who went, that I hadn’t already known:

Barbara teaches at an inner-city school and she loves her students and some of them have gone on to compete on a state (national?) level in an academic competition, with her as the coach. They are “Team Sorenson!” She sent me a photo of the team with their trophies but it’s quite blurry. Hoping she’ll send another.

Aislinn’s parents are from Ireland and she’s used to a lot of swearing and foul language and sang a song for us involving brass cleaner and bollocks! It was funny, because she’s soft-spoken and feminine.

Bev’s brother (cousin? Oh, how I wish I was taking notes) is a famous footballer in the UK. Bev’s husband Mark was a very good sport for coming along.

Colleen is thoughtful and kind and recommended my friend Dani Shapiro’s book, highly. She had just finished it.

Tracy was quieter than I expected, but her laugh is booming and infectious.

Alan explained that “putz” and “schmuck” are even nastier words than most of us had thought. Oh yes, we got right down to some vulgarities, even bandying about the c-word at one point (It was me, sorry. It was a joke).

Wonderful Arliss and her husband Bruce live quite near me and Bruce is the published author of a cook book!

Lisa is funny and pretty and thinks she doesn’t photograph well, which she does. Lisa’s Tom, also a great sport.

KC (Ms. Brunch) and her husband Matt met us at the gallery and then went on to dinner with the rest of the gang. I met KC years ago when she was a kid. SHe’s not a kid anymore! Gorgeous.

Here’s a group photo, taken by Tracy:

Here I am at the mike. As you can see, I decided to convert my story into song and sing it for the group.

Well the group has been sending each other photos from past night and perhaps they will put them up on their Facebook pages. Thanks to all who attended, you were wonderful!

It rained here on Monday. It poured rain. Part of our driveway was washed away, our kitchen ceiling leaked and the dogs and I were pretty much stuck indoors.  Holly drove all of us to thoughts of puppycide.  She was a very bad girl.  She attacked me and the other dogs, repeatedly, chewed up a shoe, refused to pee while outside in the rain and then squatted on a rug the minute I brought her in. And most annoying of all was her unrelenting glee.  The dogs and I were cranky because of the rain.  We wanted to lie in the bed-desk  and listen to the rain but somebody kept launching surprise attacks on our feet and muzzles.  When she was scolded she wagged her tail and then leapt at us again. She had a few time-outs.

Yesterday, the sun came out and I took Holly and Daphne for a hike.  I’ve been hiking with these two because Daphne is the most well-balanced individual in not just our dog pack, but also in our entire family, going back many generations.  She has a calm, assertive, intelligent manner, always, and I want Holly to learn from her.  On these hikes, Holly pays a lot of attention to what Daphne does and Daphne pays a lot of attention to me.  As a result, the hikes are really great.

Here we are starting out:

The trail was wet and muddy.

Fortunately,  I was wearing my fleecy rain boots that I bought this winter and wear every single day.  They’re just plain rain boots, “Wellies” of a sort, but they’re lined with fleece:

Greatest boots ever. When I extract myself from bed-desk, I’ll find out who makes them for you.

On the way home, puppy was tired, Daphne, exhausted:

And I worked in peace the rest of the day.

Today, I decided to start off the new year by doing something I never do.  I decided to take a dance/exercise class.  A friend had told me how much fun this “Zumba” class is.

 ”You just dance around to great music and the hour just flies by and at the end you’re drenched in sweat and laughing,” said she.  
“I love to dance!” said I, and I recalled many hours at nightclubs, busting out my moves, being drenched in sweat and laughing away. The part I overlooked, in these rosy recollections, is that I was a) a teenager, b) drunk and c) dancing to the Ramones.  Dancing to the Ramones is pretty basic stuff.  Just a lot of jumping up and down and slamming your head from side-to-side so hard that your neck is sprained and the next day you have to have your boyfriend help you lift it off your pillow.  Ahhhhh. Good times.

So today, I headed off to the gym in my little sweat pants and tank and I met the instructor, who was also wearing little sweats and a tank, but she had a 20-year-old body that was muscular and sexy (that’s not her in the photo above, but you get the idea), while mine somehow manages to be both skinny and flabby.  Fleshy, I guess you’d say. Well, not really fleshy. Flappy.  There’s extra flesh that you don’t notice until I start waving my arms around.  Then you notice.

So we introduced ourselves and waited for the others to show up, and soon learned that there were going to be no others.  Just me and Miss Sexy Body.  Mrs. Flappy and Miss Sexy Body (let’s call her SB).  Together. Live.

“This is actually great, since it’s your first time,” SB said.  And then she turned the music on and immediately started moving her hips and arms and head in a rapid series of moves that had me at first wonder if she was having some sort of orgasmic seizure, until she told me, stomping and gyrating away, to just follow her moves.

“Feel free to lip-sync!” she said, “It helps you keep time!”  I don’t really know the words to songs by Shakira and was going to ask if she had any Etta James, because I really can lip-sync to old Etta.  You’d think I was her.  Really.  All I can say is thank goodness there were no others in the room as somebody could have been seriously injured by my staggering about; my knees flying up near my chin, my arms flailing from side to side. And my crazy pelvis that just moves in a circular series of hitches and tics. Of course, there was some tripping. I never actually hit the floor though. I’m pretty good at recovering my balance.

After the class, I went online to see what Zumba is really supposed to look like and I found this great video which features a dancer who emulates the Ann Leary technique.  She’s the one in the knee-length green pants.  Sort of to the left of the screen:

I hope Green Pants doesn’t sue me for pointing her out. It’s just uncanny, the way we dance alike. We could actually work out a routine and take our show on the road.

I also found this Zumba video and personally want to hunt down the chick with her tank top flipped up over her bra, and wrestle that shirt back over her boobs where it belongs.

Tomorrow: Salsa!

I just came across this draft of a blog entry that I started while we were in Paris, but never finished.  Am posting it now because I fear that the blog has become too “doggy” for some.

Whenever we travel in European cities, I take away with me an overall impression of the people. In Rome, the people are beautiful and stylish in a very bold way.  In London, people, in general won’t stare or look at you on the street because it’s considered rude.  In Paris, people of the opposite sex will stare at you on the street because it’s sexy. The Italians love children, the Dutch tolerate them (and most other things) very well, and the British would rather you left them at home. But in general, Europeans are thin, quiet and dignified compared to Americans and every time I return to America after a trip abroad, I vow to behave in a more European manner, meaning that I will walk with poise and address strangers in a polite, formal manner and use my inside voice, even when I’m outside.  When engaging with others, I will give them the coldfish eye, and not try to ingratiate myself with everyone all the time with my panting, grinning, drooling affability.

My new European self usually lasts about six hours.

You can learn a lot about a culture in the way that it takes care of its children.  On the day that we took a tour with our Franco-American guide, we wandered past an ecole Maternelle – a public preschool – and through the windows I saw that several rows of low tables had been set with place settings of china plates and mugs.  There were baskets of bread on the tables.  It looked like a quaint restaurant for children.  Our guide showed us the menu that was posted on the outside of the school doors so that the parents could see what their kids would be eating for lunch.  I took a photo, but it’s very hard to read.  Sorry.

Anyway, each day, the children are cooked a 2-course meal by a chef in the school.   There is soup or a salad to begin, a meat dish, sometimes pasta, sauteed vegetables, fresh fruit and yogurt.  All the fruits and vegetables are organic!  So is the meat!   The children apparently sit politely and dine on food that has been prepared for them with great care.  They don’t eat off of plastic trays or out of paper bags.  This was not a private school, but a city public school.

For the dog and horse people, a few photos I took in the Louvre:

And finally, baby.  I must confess that the name Delilah is just not sticking.  We NEVER call her that, or Lilah.  Just “baby” of “puppy”  Thinking we need a new name, but we all keep arguing about what it should be.  Well, here’s little baby napping:

I see from your comments that many of you love Paris, so I thought we’d have ourselves a little quiz.  I don’t think you necessarily need to have ever been to Paris to answer these questions, in this, the age of Wikipedia, but it probably will give you an advantage.

Okay ready?  Let’s begin!

1)When did the French start illuminating the Eiffel Tower each night with this brilliant light display?

a) The day the US House of Reps took the word “french” off its menus on items describing fried potatoes

b)  The day George Bush left the White House for good

c) The day Carla Bruni became first lady

c) The eve of the new millenium

Extra credit:  The photo was taken from a restaurant.  Which one?

2) Who slept in the bedroom below?

3) Who is this character and in which museum can he be found?

4)Where was the following photo taken:

5) Who is this man?  How did he come to be carrying his head in his hands? (Extra credit – how did he manage to keep his hat on his head?)

6) In which part of Paris is this charming street?

And finally, we arrived home last night.  Guess who’s coming home today?

Happy Thanksgiving to you all, dear blog readers.  Today we walked all up and down the streets of Montmartre and through the Latin Quarter.  We had a lovely guide who is American but has lived in Paris for much of her life and is very knowledgeable about French history and by the end of the day I was clutching my throat with both hands and making sure that my head was still securely attached to my neck.  Those French sure knew how to throw a revolution.  Our American revolution was still quite recent when the French gave greedy old King Louis and Marie Antoinette the heave-ho, and it’s clear they meant to upstage us with all their casting about of freshly liberated heads of state (and I mean just the heads)and martyring of nuns and whatnot.

Well, I hate when people show you the photos of their holidays and say, “Oh, this is the so-and-so, where we ate such-and-such.”  So I’ll just post a few photos and you can enjoy the scenery and I’ll be happy to answer and questions.  The internet is VERY slow here and I’ve not been able to catch up on all your comments.  But I will!  Happy Thanksgiving!

Okay, I’ll answer your questions about the above shots now. Yes, the Christmas tree is being decorated in front of the Cathedral of Notre Dame.  And, yes, the guy in the crane is giving the finger to the people below, who were all hooting and jeering. In front of the sacred Cathedral. I absolutely LOVE the French.  Oh, our guide gave us her opinion on why the French are such huge fans of American comedians like Jerry Lewis and Jim Carrey.  It is because they always try to be very dignified and correct (except when decorating trees in front of churches) and the American comedians who are the most outlandish with their facial expressions and general physical movements are the most hilarious, in their opinions.   This made sense to me.  I know many Americans have been puzzled by the French love of Jerry Lewis, because many Americans, especially those of my generation just never thought he was that funny.  According to our American guide that’s because we know a lot of people who act like goofballs.  The French do not know so many.

Remember what I was saying about my posing problem?  Just point a camera my way.

The photo below is of me posing with a certain man of the blog. Does anybody know who this mysterious Francophile is?