THE MORNING AFTER

Wake up Mary!

You are not the center of the universe!

After The Week-End Exhibition at The American Cathedral, I felt free to do silly things, like laundry, returning a stove top that didn't heat hot, and readjusting to not being so important. 

Starting with the easiest task, I headed off to Darty  with my two burner electric plate in its original box and bag. The ten minute walk was long enough to rehearse the confrontations I was anticipating.

Somehow, I thought it was my fault, but was  confident in Darty's "contract de confiance".

I had returned the same model two months before for a similar  under-heating problem.  It was an upstairs-downstairs-stand-in-line-procedure. 

Again, I was going to have to tell them that I couldn't boil water, which in some language, I can't remember which, means that you're an idiot. But, even an idiot knows that macaroni don't cook in luke-warm water. 

First step, was the return desk downstairs.

I waited fifteen minutes with that director on the phone with an irate customer. I could hear her voice blah-blah-blah from his phone. Loud and cranky. 

"Why doesn't he  just tell her that she's right and he's sorry?"  I thought and get on with it or me.

Finally, her time ran out. 

My turn.

I learned that it was "normale" that my hot plate didn't heat hot and I could replace it.

He gave me the necessary papers.

Upstairs, I was happy to see that the former aloof nineteen-year-old snobby salesgirl had been replaced. The new one, a very tall young woman with bad posture was in conversation with another customer. She was holding her hand on her chest.

I first took it as a sincerity gesture.

When my turn came, she smiled and said "Bon Jour."

She seemed refreshingly sweet - sort of with a smile and an ear of a pastor.

She continued to hold her hand on her chest during our conversation.

I asked her if she was in pain.

She said "Yes."

Next extraordinarily impolite question I asked was

"Are you pregnant?"

She said "no". 

So not heart-burn.

Her pain came from "une ulcère."

She then, encouraged me to buy an upscale model hot plate.

She said that they had had many returns with the one I had first chosen.

"Then, why don't they stop selling them?"

"I don't know." she said still holding her chest.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.

She said, "Yes."

Then, I remembered my ulcer story and told her.

About twenty-five years ago, I had an ulcer in the same place. 

I saw a specialist. Then a homeopath. I changed my diet then

my doctor. Late one night there was a knock at my door. 

I was living in New York at the time.

It was a former boyfriend that had up and left me to marry  "the perfect woman."

I told him that he couldn't come in. He pleaded and announced that his marriage was over.

I finally relented telling him only because it might be good for the ulcer pain and put my hand on my chest. He said,"You have a pain, too?"

She was nodding waiting for the outcome. 

The ulcer went away, but so did I and came back to Paris.

My new stove top is working well. Hot. Hot. Hot.

Painting from India water color series "Bombay" 1976

Fugi photo colors on Canson.

WHAT'S 'N TOWN?

This is one event not to miss -

Sunday afternoon from 1 o'clock until 5:30, and Monday evening, from 6 until 9, artists from The American Cathedral reveal their talent exhibiting their recent works. There is a lot to be explored. We all know that living in Paris has a special effect on our artistic spirit. Here we can see it in many forms of expression.

I'm not promoting it just because I'm showing some recent canvases, water colors, and prints that are bound to dazzle; it is always a great event.

"PASSOVER" acrylic on canvas 38 x 46cm.

OH, I SEE

I had been grossly negligent about upgrading my eyeglasses having stupid priorities on my agenda instead.

Then one morning, while taking a bath, (the only waking moment that I don't have them on), I realized that there was a hugh difference between the vision from my left eye and the vision from the right one.

Worried for the worse, I sought medical assistance finally settling for an ophthalmologist on rue des Abbesses. His receptionist was a long time neighbor of mine so, my choice, wasn't completely out of the blue.

When I arrived at his office last Friday, there were three people already waiting to see him. The receptionist, my neighbor, had taken the day off to make the week-end longer and her week shorter. 

I had an image in my head of what a specialist looked like, so was surprised when a very cute, wiry young man, in Avery wrinkled shirt, emerged to call his next patient.

He  eyed me and announced that I was third in line. That was fine for me. It would give me time to run home and get my iron. His shirt definitely needed pressing. 

When my time came, he directed me into what I thought was his office,but, in fact, was a small elevator. I gasped when he enterd close behind me, then, laughed as we began to move slowly upward.

In his small office that looked down on the street was an enormous seeing eye machine.

He posed me in place then looked into the machine that looked into my eyes.  He told me that my pressure was fine and also announced that I had the beginning of cataracts, but, not to worry.

He then began to slide a great number of lenses in front of each eye. 

"Better or worse?" Over and over again. He made a notation, then told me that I should get new glasses. That I knew.  He also suggested that I wear them less.

"Really?" I replied.

"Your right eye has nearly corrected itself." he said as I handed him my carte securite sociale

"It's nearly perfect."

So, after twenty years of limited vision, I can see all around me. It's a wonderful sensation.

" Groovy." I thought crossing La Place Etoile at The Arc de Triophe.

Trees all around me.

More incredible is that I needed a specialist to see that I saw.

Drawings from unpublished storybook SPENCER TREETOP LEARNS TO DANCE