D Selby Designs

I couldn’t have scripted a better visit. We stayed the first night at the Hyatt Regency right on the Chicago River, with a view of the lake. After check-in, we strolled up Michigan Avenue, admiring the architecture, the sunset over the lake, and window dressings of the tony shops. Our walk ended at the Drake Hotel, where–in the lobby–we observed the biggest live flower arrangements I’ve ever seen. Kudos to them for keeping the period look so real. Tacky me–I even filched paper hand towels from the Ladies, imprinted with griffins. Griffin may get them, or he may not. As we rounded the intersection of Lower Wacker and Michigan, a film crew was preparing for night shooting of the new Batman movie.

On the next day, I walked in the opposite direction along Michigan Ave. in weather I’ve never experienced in Chicago. They say there are two seasons in Chicago, winter and construction, but until Monday my weather experiences have been ‘Antarctic’ or ‘Hell’. Picture this: no humidity, low seventies, pleasant breeze, sunshine, and friendly people all the way to the Institute. Only two panhandlers, that I saw, though I almost stepped on one of them.

I got my collections mixed up–the Cassatt’s I mentioned in the last blog are at D.C.’s National Gallery; however, the ones at the Institute have the glow of that Mary I love. I arrived when the doors opened, headed to the second floor, and meticulously eyeballed works by Degas, Cezanne, Renoir, Pissaro, Monet, Manet and others for hours while taking notes in my little black book. Took a break for lunch in the garden cafe then scrutinized the many Georgia O’Keefes and other American painters I admire. I think I was the last to leave.

Then, being so close to-the-store-formerly-known-as-Marshall Fields, I shot over a couple of blocks to see the Tiffany ceiling. It’s still there, of course, but the store is now simply another Macy’s. With its architecture and reputation, the landmark retail mecca deserves distinction, not same ole, same ole. The lower level Cellar Food Court, formerly a great place for a bun and tea, was closed due to an infestation of fruit flies. I warned you many years ago, Dear Readers, that the Wal-Martization of America would kill creative retail.

Since we spent the next night near O’Hare, I rode in with Greg very early yesterday morning and called at several fabric showrooms in the Merchandise Mart to find new resources. I meant to stay for an hour or two and then hit some shops, but I never left the building. It’s a nearly  square mile site with 18 floors, so I got my walking in for the . . .month! By the time I made it back to Crazy Mt’s showroom, my knees felt as though they were bending in the wrong direction.

We made it as far as Indianapolis last night, then headed home. What a luxury to dash off to my favorite U.S. city!

When do daily bloggers live real lives? There is just too much ‘life’ going on, to manage a time to be scintillating each day! I have a new client, the owner (with grown children) of an absolutely gorgeous horse farm on Russell Cave Road. The kids built a new house for her near the front gate, one that would entice her to move from Seattle. The horses helped.

As I waited for her to answer the front door (should I have gone to the back, trades-person that I am?), I breathed in the perfection of Kentucky: rolling green paddocks limned with black fences and exuberantly leafy young trees, horses of majestic beauty, a Vermeer-blue sky. When she answered the door, I quipped, “Nice house. Too bad about the crumby view.”

Thank goodness, she laughed.

It was an enjoyable time, listening to her life stories and planning what I’d like to do for her windows. It was when she showed me her art studio that, regretfully, I had to hate her just a little bit. Someday, my friends. You can have the glitter, the gold, the stock portfolio–just give me space and light and a loaded brush.

Speaking of which: Lord willing, I’ll be at the Art Institute of Chicago tomorrow studying brush work. Greg has a client coming to the Chicago showroom, so I’m tagging along. Not without a bit of guilt. Mom remains in pain, as her second epidural isn’t doing as much as the first did for her hip and knee. At nearly 88, this is the first real joint pain she’s had–ever! I should be so fortunate. I remember my knees ‘crunching’ while running up and down stairs 30 years ago after Baby Carey arrived.

Think of me tomorrow, my friends, as I stand in front of Mary Cassatt’s blue and lime boating portrait of a couple and child. Or the blue interior with a little girl slumped into a soft chair. What a thrill it must have been for the Impressionists to sling blue around, after the dull brown landscapes of their predecessors.

Atlanta was fun. Atlanta was family. Atlanta was delicious. Atlanta is a traffic nightmare.

Greg stayed super busy at the Mart, so Carey, Griff, and I shopped, ate a lot, and saw the new Harry P film. We even braved IKEA on a Saturday for Zach (yea, Griff! What a man!), as he needs furniture. Hey–I just realized Zach WAS here to feed the cat and do other chores, because my computer chair is several notches lower. Considering that he’s eight inches taller than myself, logic suggests that it would be higher, but he has a tendency to stretch out nearly horizontal as he does his web work.

Carey and Griffin’s AC went out just before we got there. Good thing we had hotel reservations! They stayed at a hotel for a couple of nights, too. Summer in Atlanta can be brutal. I cat sat while the AC guy was there on Monday morning, then stopped by Carey’s current project house on the way home. She and two Dogwood Studio artists are making the walls of a mansion (did someone say, “McMansion”?) gorgeous with plaster, burlap, wheat, copper leaf, and secret ingredients. Here’s a shot of the outside of the mosque they’re working on for the next three months–eighty feet up on scaffolding, to the top of the dome. Greg can’t think about it. He’s in his heart attack years.

I don’t get it. Weeks before one of his ’show’ trips, I’ll ask, “Is there anything you need? Shoes? Shirts? Suit?” And the answer is ALWAYS, “No, I’m fine.”

Then, on departure day, I have to once again endure that mind-numbing game of, “Does this tie go with this suit?” to which I want to reply, ‘does this tee go with my capris?’ Jeez Louise. Invariably, one of the suits he chooses is just a bit out of style, a favorite tie goes only with a DQ foot long chili dog, and–hold on to your hat–he does need stuff. He is always surprised.

So as he packed, I headed for Lexington to hit the gym, but stopped by Macy’s first so I could surprise him with five shirts and two ties. Then I did my walking, showered and made-up in the locker room, had a latte and was home in less than two hours from the time I left. Greg looked in amazement at the array of shirts and ties I plopped onto our bed, and insisted I had not had time to do all that I had done in the time I was gone. I’m from Venus, you see, a hunting and gathering fiend, so I can hit the mens’ dept., spot the sale signs, find the right size bins, and voila! Greg spends longer buying a replacement spool for the Weed Eater.

All my good intentions to spend the weekend painting, after working long and hard on Friday, came to naught. I did have a good drive to Northern KY airport with Zach on Saturday, as he is at an Adobe-sponsored tech conference in Seattle during this writing. We made really good time while scarfing down burgers and fries and talking about everything under the sun. As I sped past Terminal One, I realized rather late that I was blowing through a stop sign. Screeched my brakes, just so the airport cop would be fully aware of my faux pas. At least I made it to Terminal 3 before he pulled me over, so Zach could hop out and do the curb-side check in. After the license-registration-insurance search on my part, he took the documents back to his cruiser for 5 LONG minutes, and came back–with a warning. Phew! The last four times I’ve been stopped, I’ve admitted so very sweetly to wrong-doing, and have gotten warnings. I must be the epitome of sweet-hump-backed-old-lady these days–with a lead foot.

Zach came back to the car for a hug-through-the-window and said, “Mom? I really love you!” AWWWW!!! Greg and I must have done something right: he even paid for the gasoline.

Carey is spending her days 80 feet in the air, Michaelangelo-style painting the ceiling of a mosque. Another problem is that heat rises, and it’s Atlanta in the summer. Plus, their air conditioning at home blew last week. Mommy wants to make it all better. That never ends, does it?

I believe the Bible, and I believe the ‘do unto others’ command, and I pray to be useful to God, so did I act foolishly yesterday?

I did go ‘black barn hunting’ as planned, and was out of my car on a back road when another car chugged to a stop in front of mine. I walked toward both with phone-to-ear (hoping if the driver had bad intentions, she would think I’d called her license number in). She, too, was on her cell saying, “Yeah, there’s a woman here, so maybe she’ll help me.” She had run out of gas. Right in front of my car. In the middle of no place. Suspicious? Duh. I told her I was a member of AAA and would call for gas. She agreed, thanked me, then said, “I live just down the road, and I have a gas can there full of gas. My family works on cars.”

So–was it foolish to load her into my car and drive 3-4 miles to the Kentucky River and go down a narrow, overgrown, hidden road to her house? As soon as she got out of the car, I called Greg and gave him my location so the police would have a clue. He was not happy. There was a clearing in front of her house, and she has a gorgeous panoramic view of the Palisades across the river. As I took it all in, watching a hawk circle high above the river, I outlined a true crime book about my own dead self. She appeared with a gas can. We drove back to her car. She gave me a free-oil-change card from her family’s auto repair business in Nicholasville. Phew.

I meandered on, and came across Irish Acres Antiques in Nonesuch. Some of you dear readers may remember it from Carey’s bridal luncheon given by Nana J. It was 9:50 A.M., and the UPS man was there waiting for the owner to open up. Lo and behold, it was Steve–the UPS driver for 10 years of Hickory Hollow, ten years ago. We chewed the fat. I’ll spare you the details of our individual last ten years, which took less than 6 minutes to tell–rather depressing for us both. When the owner hadn’t shown up at 10, I agreed to sign for a dozen big boxes, and wait. Didn’t have much choice, since I’d had a lot of coffee and there aren’t many places for a lady to download coffee in Nonesuch.

So I waited. And finished an old crossword puzzle in the car. Then sat on the broad porch and waited some more, jiggling my foot. And walked all around the building. And considered downloading the coffee into the cup from which it was sipped, since I seemed to be the only human in Nonesuch. Finally, I realized there were info brochures in the mailbox, and called the number to hear the recording.

Surprise! Closed until July 5!

And I had signed for who-knew-how-much-$ in merchandise. No good deed, and all that. I blame the owner for not putting up a ‘closed’ sign, therefore REQUIRING me to depart with much haste to Dough Daddy’s Donuts in Versailles for a ‘rest’ stop and a half dozen just-fried donuts. I’d like to say I waited until I got home before sampling two entire warm donuts, but their special blend of coffee is so good, and it was a long country road home, so when I got out of the car I had donut sugar all down the front of my navy shirt.

Neighbor Skip was helping Greg put the garage cabinets in, so I let them think I’d gotten them each two donuts as I covertly dusted sugar from my shirt. Isn’t it amusing that fluffy people like me don’t want people to know that they eat? Puh-leeze.

Once home, I left messages with everyone I knew associated with Irish Acres, and one of the owners finally called to thank me. Now Greg can rest easy. He was sure that those packages contained merchandise worth more than our lives.

One should never see an actor acting, and in “Children of Men”, Clive Owen nails his role. One hundred per cent. We watched the DVD tonight, and I am impressed not only with him, but also and always by P. D. James, the author. What a mesmerizing story for a 72-year old to write. She is 87 now, and still writing. Must get her autobiography, which I believe is entitled, Time To Tell The Truth. Or some such thing.

“Children of Men” is a compelling what-if scenario, and is not for the faint of heart. I shall now retire to my thinking spot (bed) and contemplate the themes. And in the morning, I shall do as Dennis suggested, and go in search of KY’s disappearing black barns. I see a series in the future–if I decide, after contemplating, that there is one. Only God knows, not us children of men. Did anyone say, ‘bird flu’?