Gar·ret/noun; a top-floor or attic room, especially a small dismal one, not to be confused with a penthouse, and traditionally inhabited by an artist.
Montmartre. Still, there were damp yellow Chestnut leaves and corner bistros for morning croissants and coffee. At that time of year the smaller Left Bank streets of Paris were just beginning to offer trees, lights, and menorahs for the holiday season, and everything was bedecked with little lights. Did I mention that the entire country’s transportation system was on strike? La grève! No trains, no planes, no Metro, no taxis. Did I mention that it was cold and that I was on foot in my little Chanel hounds-tooth skirt and black tights?
Brief non sequitur here (and, yes, I'll help you). Non se·qui·tur/noun; a conclusion or statement that does not logically follow from the previous argument or statement.
Sacré Cœur, I began to paint. The delicious scent of linseed oil filled the apartment, pouring out into the icy air on my two little garret balconies. Nothing says I'm a painter quite like the smell of linseed oil. I was in heaven. I painted day and night . . . only venturing out for morning café, for groceries to cook in my tiny French kitchen, and for the occasional evening Vivaldi concert. There was only one fly in this oils ointment: I can’t paint. I can’t paint with watercolors. I can’t paint with acrylics. Why, I can’t even draw. So why I felt capable of jumping directly into the artist's milieu of oils is absolutely beyond me. My dismal failure with oils should have come as no surprise.
Bastille Day party).
So I unpacked the oils and myriad canvases about a month ago. I could try to complete some of the started-never-completed canvases, or I could paint the children's Costa Rican tree frog image that Rusty found on Pinterest. I chose the tree frog. End of tale: it was horrible . . . or such was my opinion. Again, no surprise. It was so horrible to my eye that I spent almost an hour trying to locate an appropriate hiding place before entertaining some dear friends so that I wouldn’t have to explain this oil painting fiasco, nor have wet oils all over anything in our new home.
So while the oils didn't quite work as anticipated, I've always got a Plan B. Always! Naturally, I'll continue with my not-surprising fascination with our monkey, vulture, scorpion, ant-eater, and tree-top dwelling neighbors. But this still leaves ample time to tackle a craft-a-day for the upcoming 12 months. So rather than dwell solely on that pesky cow, I choose crafts . . . and vodka . . . and landscaping.
The tee box is complete; and during our week-long absence in Texas, my darling Cynthia added not only grass but also flowers and shrubberies (including the coveted frilled croton). Insofar as Cynthia and Lubos always go above-and-beyond for us, no surprise there.