Big Things Have Small Beginnings

While living in Burkina Faso, my friend Yaya would say to me, un peu un peu, which is a French idiom (at least in Burkina) that means little by little . . . and it always seemed to contain the strong implication of For the love of God, woman, have some patience! This, from the most patient, understanding man in the world.

Yaya, we've been digging this well for nine weeks and still haven't hit water. Ah, Kathy, un peu un peu. Yaya, will those hens ever lay eggs? Yaya, I will never-ever speak French. Ah, Kathy, un peu un peu.

Enough, already. I'm back in The States . . . and I expect quick results. Here, I don't do patient. I'd be great on Chopped because I can really cook . . . and I'm fast. I don't have a Slow button . . . not here in the U.S. Living or traveling abroad is a different matter: I am certainly capable of island time. In Burkina we called it W.A.I.T. West Africa International Time, and I was fine with it.

There is an entire hemisphere called the Americas. North America, Central America, South America, Latin America. And, culturally sensitive person that I try to be, I really dislike calling myself an American. But being born and raised in the United States, what should I call myself (besides nuts)? A United-Statesian? Of course not. The French certainly understand the term . . . they even distinguish between a male American and a female American: Il est américain, et elle est américaine. Boy, those French! They have a different word for everything.

I absolutely accept the fact that an individual from Belize, or Brazil, or Bolivia may dislike the term American as being applicable solely to those from the U.S. I concede that it's too egocentric. Perhaps the only term even more egocentric is Texan . . . as if the entire world should know where Texas is. But for purposes of this post, I am an impatient American, a get-'er-done Texan, and an I want it now woman.

A beach ball, a dog, a frog, a log, a poodle, a noodle, a doodle. In the case of Rusty and Kathy: a pair of Lunch At The Ritz earrings, a $3000 Baume & Mercier watch, a Burberry cashmere cape, a Tanzanite and diamond necklace set in platinum, blah, blah, blah. Oh yeah . . . and some bits of motorcycles. On eBay I sold my $3000 B&M Geneve watch (sadly, not for its true value), and Rusty sold some motorcycle bits. Anyone else see something wrong with this?

Oh, I think men are wonderful, says Tracy Lord in The Philadelphia Story. To which Miss Imbrie sarcastically replies, The little dears. At any moment when discussing the deconstruction of our home and its contents, Rusty and I stand on the precipice of a downright tantrum . . . or at least I do. Though perhaps there is a silver lining to this clear inequity: the items I've sold on eBay fetched a tidy sum. Could this be one more bargaining chip toward that poolside furniture?

Somewhere, somehow there exists a solution to this problem of me selling everything, and Rusty clinging to bits of wreckage . . . but today that solution eludes me. The final room in our home was packed and organized yesterday . . . with a large portion of its contents placed into the garage sale area. I'm ready to tackle the garage. But wait . . . wait . . . wait for it: If I touch anything in Rusty's garage, I won't live to see Samara. Sounds like a vodka-for-dinner night. Or shopping! The answer is shopping. What was the question?

My darling friend, Ebben, will help me shop for a new watch. I am sans timepiece while Rusty still has a dozen watches, including some high-end watches, none of which he's willing to list on eBay at this time (again, what's wrong with this picture?) . . . can you say hoarder?

I accept that another expensive timepiece is not in my future. What's the purpose in Samara? But a watch of some sort is a must. I've grown very familiar with every nuance of my wrist . . . looking at it several times daily only to see that my beloved B&M isn't there. Bring me the vodka.

We enjoyed a productive discussion last night. Did we buy the right home? Even though, to begin with, our new finca will have no garage and no separate studio space for Rusty? I was thrilled when we simultaneously agreed with a resounding yes!

And little by little, our new home will have a garage added . . . and then a rancho for Rusty's toys . . . and boy-oh-boy do I have plans for our mountainside. Little by little. Lo que hay.