Sprung.

I know it was officially Spring days ago, but today, we FELT it.

A trip to Riverdale Farm:







And a tuckered-out kid afterward.



Oh, bliss.

That Sucking Noise You Hear Is The Sound Of Me Being Pulled Into Another Meme

Oh, Scarbie, Scarbie, Scarbiedoll, you should know that I can't resist a meme. In order to get this up and out of my system, I am not linking to either past posts, abstruse references, rare perfumes or alcoholic beverages I'd like for people to buy me. I'm not even going to try to figure out how to make the headings look different. The return key is my friend tonight.

Accent(s):
Some people think I've retained my Buffalonian accent, which has the hard flat "A" Torontonians have come to know and love from watching newscasts about all the fires in Tonawanda and Cheektowaga (Teahhnaweanda and Cheektahweahga) - without realizing that it also juxtaposes a softer a where it's inappropriate. "Tahco Seahlad" and "Pahsta Ceahsahrole". When I go visit my family in Buffalo, they say I sound "Canadian". I do not say "eh". Ever, really.

Booze of Choice:
Bourbon. Maker's Mark for everyday. I mean, casual consumption. Wait...neither of those makes me sound any better. I mean, for occasional imbibing. Shoot...hardly more impressive. Never mind. Weller's Centennial if I'm flush, if it's available, or if you're buying. I like beer. I mean, I love beer. I like crisp light tasting pale beers like Rolling Rock in the summer, and I like flavourful beers like Maudite for other times. I like Guiness a lot. Tetley's on tap makes me happy too. But, after having had three years of either being pregnant or breasfeeding, I'm a weak sister and can't quite indulge as I used to.

Chore I Hate:
A whole post some day. Cleaning things that cannot ever really be cleaned enough to suit me, like my kitchen floor, windows or the oven. Have I mentioned before how much I hate emptying the dishwasher? If my fingers squeak on a clean dry glass, I'll have the heebies for days. Wait...that one goes under phobia, I think.

Dog or Cat:
I've rarely ever been without a dog. I'm currently cruising Petfinder, checking out profiles like a teenager haunts MySpace. There's another post - why I'm volunteering for more heartbreak. And have I mentioned my cat Boo Boo?

Essential Electronics:
My lovely 'puter. I no longer need a TV. I just read the snark on Television Without Pity and it's better than watching the show! And, get this - I recently discovered if I put a DVD in, it vibrates on my lap as it mounts. I didn't think I could love it more, but...

Favorite perfume(s)/cologne(s):
I've been wearing Cashmir by Chopard for fifteen years. I love it, and Steve does too. Done right, I'm warm and sultry. Too much and I'm Pepe le Pew. It's too heavy for summer, so then I wear something lighter, usually something called Spanish Baby Cologne that I buy in a huge plastic bottle at the CNE, from one of the exhibits in the International Pavilion - I think I'm going to try to find No. 4711 for this summer though. I love that one, though it is really an expensive version of the Spanish Baby Cologne.

Gold or silver:
Platinum, baby. Or its affordable white friend, silver.

Hometown:
Buffalo, NY. Amherst if I want to name check the ritzy suburb that doesn't make me look trashy. Cheektowaga if I'm telling the truth about where my folks live now.

Insomnia:
When I'm not having horrific nightmares.

Job Title(s):
Current: Mama to Josephine. Wife to Steve. Shop clerk at a funky store on Queen East. Book Reviewer for a prolific author. Professional Handwriter for a swanky department store ad campaign by a major ad agency.

Previous (in reverse chronological order): Shop clerk at pricey antique store, antique store manager, Jewellery Specialist at an auction house, Jewellery sales clerk at Birks, Shop clerk at pricey antique store (same one, nine years earlier!), Head of Outside Accounts at a dry cleaner, manager of a consignment clothing store, dry cleaner clerk, manager of a vintage clothing/jewellery/accessories store, employee vintage clothing store, employee at a clothing department store, Oscar the Grouch, waitress at an ice cream/sandwich shoppe, Easter Bunny.

Kids:
No baby goats at this time, but I grew up near a farm and raised one. And a Black Angus cow named George. He was delicious.

Living Arrangements:
100 year old money pit in a slowly gentrifying neighbourhood - more quickly gentrifying when the Starbucks moves in less than two blocks away.

Most Admired Trait:

I had to look up trait in order to try to answer this properly (can I tell you how much I love dictionaries?)

"characteristic, attribute, feature, quality, property; habit, custom, mannerism, idiosyncrasy, peculiarity, quirk, oddity, foible."

But ADMIRED? You tell me. I'm saturated with sarcasm. Habitually I'm quirky. Oh, my foibles. If I had to admit to something I admire about myself, I'd say I'm customarily good-hearted. Um, fifteen years ago when I was voted student of the month in my regular aerobics class (does anyone do aerobics anymore?) I was described as "funny, intense and cute". You know, like a teddy bear that criticizes your eye makeup referencing Helen Gurley Brown, but in a humorous way.

Number of Sexual Partners:
I keep telling you Mom, that I'll never tell. No matter how often you try to extort the information by circulating memes all over the interweb.

Overnight Hospital Stays:
Who wrote this meme? Who cares about this question? For the record, two - when giving birth to Josephine, and when having all four of my wisdom teeth extracted. Does waiting hours and hours over one night in the ER as a teenager to have a contraceptive sponge removed - so long that you enter the early stages of TSS - count? Mom?

Phobia(s):
Fingers squeaking on glasses. GAAAAAAH! Also, bugs in my hair (especially the thought of them laying eggs there) (please wait while I shower for hours now just thinking about it). And, well, if I let myself think about how much fecal matter is everywhere, I just couldn't leave the house. So I don't (fingers in ears, eyes squinched, fetal position, LALALALALALALA).

Quote(s):
What I say? Again, you tell me. What I like that someone's said? I like "Life is sweetened by risk." and I like Paloma Picasso's "When I wear a red coat on a rainy day, I give a gift to all who look at me."

Religion:
Raised Roman Catholic - a really good one who tried. Now, I sin right and left - but at least I know I'm going to hell.

Siblings:
None..that I know of. Mom?

Time(s) I Wake Up:
The alarm goes off at 7:29. The toddler goes off at 6:45.

Unusual Talent/Skill:
I can put my lipstick on perfectly by sticking the tube in my bra and bending over...wait...that's Molly Ringwald. Damn. I get our youths confused.

I have a remarkable grasp of the trivial, and of obscure cultural reference points.

Vegetable(s) I Refuse To Eat:
Beets. So far, nobody's been able to make one delicious enough for me. That, combined with being forced to eat them as a child, means you'd have to hold me down and force my clenched jaw open...if you can even get the fork past my flailing arms, Mom.

Worst
I interrupt. A lot. But I know I learned it from my mother, so it's her fault. I also blame others for my bad habits. As well, I need to say things right when I think them, or, as I put it "The thought got lonely and left."
Habit(s):

X-rays:
Hmmm... I don't think so. I've never broken anything, or swallowed anything, or oh...do teeth count?

Yummiest Food I Make:
There are more than a few men around town who would line up for my pies - sweet potato or apple. My chicken cutlets are a poem. These sirloin tips that I make to serve over spectacularly fluffy mashed potatoes? Even I love myself for those. I cannot go to one of Steve's family functions without bringing my candied yams.

Zodiac Sign:
Leo. As if you couldn't tell.


On a totally unrelated subject - did anyone happen to catch Air Supply on Jimmy Kimmel just now (last night by time you read this)? Holy crap - the little dark-haired guy has gone all silver, and has lots of old tattoos on his arms, and is wearing TIGHT red leather (pleather?) pants. It's disturbing. Is that really the guy who seranaded me to sleep with "I'm All Out of Love" when I was like, eight? I don't think I've ever seen him outside of a 1970's compilation CD infomercial, and um...well, all I can say is that the current images in my brain are now ricocheting around in my skull and bouncing off my memories; and now they have combined in this bizarre mix of revulsion and pity and fascinated horror - accompanied by the soundtrack of his bleating, blunted voice.

Spring is...

on my windowsill.

Potato plant has developed the CUTEST little flower, and it is peering out my dirty window.



After taking this photo, I immediately went to check out the chair, because I noticed when viewing it on the computer screen that it looked like there were some Boo Boo Poo smudges. Then I realized it was just the nap of the material. Really. I mean it. I checked.

But I cleaned it anyway.

The Very Long Tale of How Marla is Offering the Tale of Peter Rabbit with a Few Other Tales Thrown In Because Marla Finds Brevity Painful

I often say, forgetting where I first heard the phrase so I can't properly attribute it: "Blogging makes you care about people you don't know."

And so, when I became aware of the Karmic Brownie Points that could be earned by helping with Annika's plight (the mention of anything brownies will always cause my ears to perk up, and my nose might even twitch, yet I could not help but read on even though it was followed by "points" (But just take a minute and imagine this concept...karmic brownie points in that when you do good things, you are rewarded BY brownies - not for being a brownie!) (snaps out of reverie and promises to stop using parenthetical asides) (for at least a few paragraphs), I spent a few days trying to figure out what I could do to help.

Without going into my giving nature or altruistic ideals, in this case I finally came to the conclusion that I would like to offer something of value to help Moreena and her family via the raffle for Annika's Internet Insurance Policy. But what do I have of value? Oh, a gazillion things of value to me - but to anyone else in the world? What could I do that would genuinely help, that would help satisfy not just their need, but my own need to feel like I gave from my heart?

It didn't take too long - it came to me, it did. I saw it, and I knew immediately. And I felt a pang, which is how I knew it was good. This:



It's old and lovely and has some provenance.

It is a 1912 Edition of The Tale of Peter Rabbit, by Beatrix Potter, published by Warne. It is in really, really nice condition. Here are more images:











I used to work at an auction house here in Toronto, and during my tenure there, the various departments began disposing of the Estate of Aleen Aked. I knew nothing of her until the process of learning about her through her possessions became part of my job (you should Google her too, and read more), and each department in the company handling her items was responsible for revealing other facets, a few lines at a time, describing the things she'd lived with. She had many beautiful collections, some inherited and some acquired. She had so many possessions that it took some time to process the estate, with items still selling after I left the company. Aside from the high-end items, there were tray lots of just...things. Household things, bric a brac. And books. I am lucky to have purchased a couple of lots of children's books during the early stages of my pregnancy with Josephine at incredibly reasonable prices, (and was gifted with one of her watercolours by a former employer on the Christmas just before she was born, in a funny twist of fate).

Some of the books were inscribed, one from her father, one from an aunt. One book has pictures coloured in, and even some scribbles in others. There was an early colouring book - what a treasure! Born in 1907, I'm imagining the nine year old girl receiving "Little Lord Fauntleroy" from her father for Christmas in 1916. The Tale of Peter Rabbit was not inscribed, unfortunately, but I assure you it was from the same lot. In fact, I was going to offer "Little Lord Fauntleroy" because of the inscription, but then did some research and found it really has little value as a book alone - and well, I know dude's famous for his outfit - but it's a rather dry read.

Which brings me to value.

As the jewellery specialist, my job was to identify and find the value of an item. And then to describe it briefly (I'll pause while you stop holding your sides and laughing. YES, I was once required to exercise brevity on a daily basis, and performed that job admirably. I have proof.) There are differing values for the same item - with complex attributions. Retail, Replacement, Insurance, Auction, Fair Market, oh...there are like seventeen or more different values that can be calculated. I actually taught a ROMlife course, as part of it the terms used in understanding the value of estate jewellery. I would find the value by researching comparable items sold or valued otherwise in similar circumstances, usually having to find two examples within a recent period and even within a comparable market (as I put it in my class, Dubuque is not Toronto is not London). For example, the working definition of Fair Market Value that I would trot out daily is "What a willing buyer will pay a willing seller in an open market with all conditions known and no time constraints." What I often gave was the Auction Value - essentially what a comparable item sold for in a similar market within a recent (two year) time period. I'd have to find at least two examples of each, which could take two minutes or two hours. I did occasionally have to pull a price out of thin air, but I did have an educated guess, you know. Which is why I cannot watch Antiques Roadshow without gritting my teeth - the value definitions are just not specific enough for my liking and people run off thinking their items will allow them to buy that motor home and head for Arizona with a lifetime supply of Yoo Hoo ... Which is why when my father does not value my previous experience and position (as in "I bought your mom a diamond ring here .", I chafe a bit. I mean, I valued over half a million dollars worth of jewellery each year there, and worked on making connections covering a continent for three years, and know where to buy things at their most reasonable prices, and...and...cripes...

Ahem. For this project, I did use my best research efforts, and have to tell you - I've learned this book, well, it's rather unique.

You see, the earliest editions are worth like, crazy money. Like, twenty thousand Canadian dollars crazy money. Early 1900's editions are also valued at substantially high retail prices - very low thousands to teen-thousands. There aren't many 1912 editions available at any of the antique booksellers online, or listed on old auction house records. This is by a different publisher, same age.

Currently, this auction house had a not very comparable edition go through; and weeks ago when I started searching there, one more comparable one that sold for about 160 British pounds. ($340ish Canadian dollars at the time). It's off their server now, and I suppose I could try to obtain that result, but that's harder than it seems. Plus, for the record, I respect even a minute of anyone's time in that aspect - not to toot my own horn any louder, but the company I worked for billed appraisal time at $100 an hour for anything in written form. Verbal opinions were offered at no cost or obligation - but were worth the paper they were written on. So I'm reluctant to be one of those people pumping for free information. I did every sort of legwork I could do on my own, using skills honed over years and many of my hours that are available due to insomnia.

This is the type of reference tool I use to check the value periodically, and it doesn't help much - but it's a clue that it's more of a lobster dinner than a Happy Meal type of value. Maybe even a lobster dinner in a nice restaurant with cloth napkins and menus not covered in plastic and without the name "Red Lobster" on your plastic bib. In a nice city, on the coast, at sundown. With bathroom attendants and valet parking. And certainly no toddlers in booster seats.

So, you see, it's hard. I could contact some of the sellers here in Toronto and bat my eyelashes and drop names and explain the circumstances and hope for a verbal opinion not worth a little or a lot more than my own - or invest in a written appraisal, which might run over the value of the book by the time they put as much work into it as I did. But I'm going to leave this up to the internets. You see, I've always said the real value of any item is what someone wants to pay for it.

It also doesn't account for the Aked provenance, which I can only prove to you with the lot number and my word. I'll show you pictures of the other books if you want.

And it doesn't account for the fact that Beatrix Potter was a phenomenal woman. In the article I just linked to back there, I read this:

"Her fungus and lichen researches were now much advanced and in 1897 her paper On The Germination Of The Spores Of Agaricineae was read at the Linnaean Society of London – but not by Potter herself, as ladies “could not present papers in person or attend on the occasion”.

I have never even typed a sentence containing the phrase "germination of spores". I cut and pasted the two above mentions by hand. AND she could probably spell Agaricineae off the top of her head - because I just cut and pasted that one too. And then, she could draw really cute animals in wee little outfits!

And the romance..

"A year later, when they had persuaded Beatrix to redo the illustrations in colour, Frederick Warne published the first commercial edition of The Tale Of Peter Rabbit in October 1902.

The publication was to mark a great change in Beatrix Potter’s life. Although she was still living at home with her parents and still going on holiday with them, at last at the age of 35 she had found some form of independence.

The next few years were remarkably creative ones for Beatrix. By July 1905 she had five books in print – as well as a proposal of marriage from her editor, Norman Warne. Against her parents’ wishes she said yes to Warne, but that opportunity for happiness was shattered when he died of leukaemia only four weeks later."

And then she went on to buy many properties and tromp around them wearing tweeds made from the wool of her own sheep. She married again, happily - in 1912, the year this edition was published. Aleen Aked would have been five - a lovely age for this story.



I am offering it, and my story about offering it, so that some day your descendant can appear on the Antiques Crapload show and say "Well, it came from a raffle held for the famous Annika, donated by the celebrity Marla Good who wrote the revered blog Hello Josephine, you know she's also the mother of Josie B. Good, internationally acclaimed humanitarian rock star? - and she said it came from..."

Easter is coming. Bunnies. Spring. A time of light and life. What I am offering is a chance to be nice. It's a charming book - a well-known story. It feels good to handle the pages, and it smells nice like an old book, but not too musty where it's gross and you can't read it. It is special. It will do a family a world of good if you show your interest in it by buying raffle tickets. Do it because you care, not because you suspect it has some value - although it does. Just not a value that I can put a number on here (though if you want to contact me privately, I will give you my verbal opinion).

Why do I care in this case? Not just because I find out in ways such as this that we are all more fortunate than we know. Because Moreena writes compellingly. Because I don't know what it's like for life to be that hard - for Moreena and all of her family, let alone Annika. Because Annika is beautiful and children are innately good - even though some apparently grow into evil medical claims and insurance adjustors and administrators. Because it seems medical costs can have the same rather arbitrary values that objects have, and they can be used for harm rather than good.

And I, I am using the super powers that I have at my command right now for good.

And now, I command you, standing here in my superhero costume, long hair streaming in a wind not felt by others and with a saucy little skirt flipping around above the tops of my thigh-high boots, with my amazing laser fingers to go here now.





Please.

Landed.

This was nestled in my mailbox this morning. I am so proud of Ann - I know how very very hard she worked on this book, stage by stage. How much she agonized, and excised, and how excited she was - how much it means to her. And I am also ahem...a little...quite a bit...very...proud of myself. Sometimes, when mired in mothering with my only other work as rather easy, no-brainer jobs, I forget what that feels like - pure, unadulterated pride in something I worked hard on. Thanks to Ann, it's been months and months since I sat on the sofa and sobbed "I..I... used to run a de..de...department that generated half a mil..mil..million dollars a year and now all I do is change poopy diapers!". I read every word, and more, of this book out loud at night after Josephine went to bed, and what makes it worthwhile is that it will help mothers. Other mothers like me, who struggle. Which, really, is every other mother.

Thanks for asking me to help Ann, and for thanking me in like, three or four places (did I miss any?). It was great to be a part of this valuable project. You are an inspiration, and a fine person. I'm glad you're in my life.

(gets all teary, lurches in for a hug, and sniffs) I LOVE YOU MAN!

On the Wing...

SOMEONE who is mildly obsessed with THESE might be happy to know that on the way to work today, we are mailing some things for THIS, and that two of THESE:







are included.

The two pictured here I made for Josephine starting last night and finishing this morning, because she cried when I packaged up the ones I made to send away. What a horrible person I am - to think that I could make or do something for someone that was not my child. After I handed them to her, she waved them in the air for all of two seconds


and then promptly abandoned them.

Weekend Update...About Things I Have Mentioned Before, Mostly.

Friday:

We had a lovely day at the store. Apart from the breakage. This week's total? About $65. Or more. I'll find out after I get back from the lamp repair. Usually Josie is very good at not wrecking things at the store where we work Wednesdays through Fridays (On Thursdays my in-laws take care of her at our house for the afternoon). I mean, I'm really good at keeping her from damaging the merchandise. She has a long nap in the middle of the day, and so it's really only keeping her busy for the first and last two hours of the day there, which are in part taken up by our lunch and snacks, books and play-doh and various doodle-thingys. But the damage this week? All my fault. I was not careful about where I put things, and so a mirror fell off a wall and broke a lamp, a plant fell off a thingy and broke a vase, a giant letter R I put outside blew over in the wind and the "leg" part broke off...it was great that I worked Saturday and so that paid for my clumsiness. The boss actually never asks to be reimbursed for stuff like that, but I volunteer to do so, so that I have a clear conscience. But, well, I was in a bad mood, and I rushed things and I was careless, and I couldn't put my finger on why and I paid for it. And then...



Why is the cat mad and wet?
Why was I mad and wet?

Because we came home... And, well, would you please do me a favour now and go and get yourself a barf bag? Right now. I mean it.

While dinner was cooking, Steve and I sat around the dining room table having some of the last of our lovely American beers. Josie was puttering around across the room, and oh, what a cosy family picture it was - the two adults relaxing after their long workdays, sharing stories and smiling upon their lovely daughter...

The cat, all nice and friendly, snaked around my legs, sat up and meowed in a request to jump onto my lap. So, seeing as I'd just had a hit from the old inhaler, a snootful of beer, and I was glad to see him doing something other than ankle biting, I encouraged him. I gave him a few ear scratches and chin rubs, and patted around his chest as he sat there purring. I sniffed, and thought "Something doesn't smell too fresh around here." Perhaps it was a diaper, or perhaps my dear husband cut one. I thought it would pass. But it lingered. I absentmindedly stroked Boo Boo, who was now standing, while thinking about the different base and top notes of the odour (Was it perhaps the avocado and dried apricot snack, or was it just as likely a previously enjoyed Burrito Boys lunch?) wondering who to blame; and ran my hand from the top of Boo's head, down his back, and as I got to his tail, I kind of circled it with my fingers in a way I know generally makes a man...I mean cat...happy. And, despite the fact that my brain was just barley registering something along the lines of "Why would a cat's tail be wet?", I did it again. And because...well, because one cannot help but want to confirm that the awful suspicion that what just happened really and truly and irrevocably did happen: with the rest of my body frozen in horror, my hand slowly moved to my nose and I gave my finger the gentlest sniff, as if only to inhale the two molecules of scent needed to confirm that oh yes, he did.

And then, with complete and utter horror, I shrieked. I GAAAHH'd. I retched. I flung him far from me, and ran around in a hand fluttering sissy dance of BLEEEAAAAAGGGGHHHH I TOUCHED CAT POOP!!!!!!!!!!

For you see, Boo Boo's tail was slick with it.

After I ran upstairs and tore off my clothes, scoured myself and anything I'd touched, and ran down the basement to wash everything immediately with everything in my cleaning supply closet that said disinfectant (including a small bottle of Listerine in my vacation travel pack) - he had the nerve to come and check me out, like, "Why the cleaning frenzy, Mar?".

So I grabbed him, front and back legs like a piglet on a spit, and then realized "Shit, I can't turn the water on without letting one end go." Thankfully, Steve came down with Josephine, explaining that I'd scared her with my freakdance and that she wanted to know what Mama was doing. So I made him turn on the water, and Boo Boo had a wee bath. We didn't hear from him for the rest of the night.





Now, some of you have cats. You will of course, have already realized, "Marla, you silly person. That can't be all - he's a CAT."

No, no, it's not all. (You didn't dispose of that barf bag already, did you?)

Because it wasn't until the next morning that Steve looked at my pillow and said...awwwww, I don't have to say it. You're already hurling. Yes, I slept on a pillow with cat diarrhea on it. (Which one of you just commented that you love my life?)

And, I know it couldn't have been anything but. For you see, Boo Boo's tail is bent at the top. I've mentioned it before, I know. And there on my pillow, was the faintest, barest whisper of a shadow of that shape...along with a few curdles of poo, just so there was no doubt. Hey, it was late, dark, and we were tired. So, on Saturday morning, more scrubbing, more laundry. Because, although anyone would be grossed by poo in such proximity, I personally have a poo thing. I know lots about fecal matter, because whereas some people have a chicken juice phobia, some get skeeved by nails on chalkboard - I see fecal matter everywhere. This from a person whose daughter had a leaky diaper that left a circle of poop on the leg of my jeans in front of one guest this past Tuesday; and on the previous Tuesday in front of another friend, reached down the front of her pants and clawed up a handful of poo that she'd spent ten minutes denying - both prompting hose-downs and clothing changes not just in an attempt to show our company that we are CLEAN PEOPLE but more because poo on one thing ends up on other things. It's a law of nature. So, that begs for the thought - exactly how long has it been since he'd had that rectal explosion, and where has he been since then. Just kill me now.

Extra laundry means extra trips up and down the stairs. Which gives Boo Boo more opportunities to attack. He waits on the back of the chair near the banister at the top of the basement stairs, and either jumps on my head or on the basket of laundry as I come up. Sometimes, I deke him out, walking upstairs as if I can't see him. And then, I turn at the last minute, and he plummets to the floor. I can't help but gloat just a little - I mean, I know he'll just get me another time, but if one doesn't win a few small scratch-off lotteries, one will not keep buying tickets for the big draw, correctamundo?



What does all of this behaviour point to? I'll tell you. Steve's mother confirmed it. The feral colony that Boo Boo came from has more than a few Siamese cats in it. The larger ears, bent tip of the tail, the pointed face, the yowling, the pouncing? Boo Boo is not only part Siamese, he is directly derived from these two:




Which is my transition to this point: Josephine received a Lady the Tramp DVD as one of her birthday presents, and do I have to say it? One of the best parts of parenthood is revisiting your childhood. I. LOVE. This. Movie. It is nearly perfect. Not only is the story great - but now with all of the extras! As an adult, to now know who Peggy Lee was and love her stuff, to be stroked with those extra clips and to "get" her full contribution to the movie. To know that one of my favourite children's illustrators, Mary Blair, among others, worked on the storyboards. OY! But, to have this pleasure enhanced by watching your darling toddler sing "Me are Si-ma-me-eeese if you pee-ease" and to ask for me to play Peg singing "He's a Tramp" again and again ("He's a tamp, but my uh-ove heem")...THE PUDDLE! THE PUDDLE MY HEART IS IN EVERY TIME!



Saturday (got nothing catchy here):

In Saturday morning's news, I baked cupcakes again, and yup:



It's old hat now - I fully expect my cereal to give me the finger tomorrow morning.

I had a lovely day working by myself at the store, and tried not to be too gleeful when Josephine pulled every toddler trick in the book on Steve. His thoughts of "I will dress her in cool clothes and take her to the guitar shop and we'll just hop on and off the street car and we'll eat French fries and have fun and this will be the kind of day I've always dreamed of with my darling beautiful daughter and everyone will admire us and I will look back upon this and draw upon its thrillingness with deep satisfaction for years to come." were thwarted by a shirt-drenching poop, a desire to finger paint (and nothing else would do), and my favourite thing: when she says, "I'm tired. I need a nap." and she goes upstairs to her bed, snuggles down, makes like she's going to sleep - just long enough for you to get hopeful - and just when you start thinking of the beer you're going to pour and the sites you're going to surf or laundry to be folded or whatever stuff's been waiting to be done - she pops up with three times the energy that she had before and you realize that not only will she not nap right then, but possibly not for the rest of the day - and it happens repeatedly for an hour or more, just to wear you down to a nub. In fact, if you look at my last nerve these days, it's smaller than the rubber bristle on a gum massager.



Sunday, bloody Sunday:

Which is why today, when the same thing was happening again with naptime despite Steve's having taken her to the park for over an hour mid-morning and a great lunch after; I horrified Steve who had just dismissed someone who'd knocked on our door soliciting support for their candidate in the election by bringing a disheveled and very cranky Josephine out to the porch, and yelling after the shlumpy twenty-something dude who was already slinking off half a block away "THANKS FOR WAKING UP MY DAUGHTER!". But no, that did not get the frustration out of my system. I was compelled to write this note and leave it on the door in case any other canvassers thought they'd be welcome to check in on us to see if they could count on our votes:



Steve is okay with it (oh yes, it's still there). See, I think that certain information is private, despite all that I reveal via blogging or after three or five bourbons with friends. And I've read that canvassing for votes doesn't accomplish anything other than giving the appearance of a well-run campaign. So I say, unless you're leaving me a free bust of Elvis, fuck right off.

After that, I had to get out of the house. Somehow I thought that Josie might nap in the car (hahahaha) or that her cranky self would be more bearable in larger confines. Since Josephine has taken to complaining about her pajamas (okay, sweat pants and shirts) saying they're "dirty" or just that she wants them off for some reason (although I have noticed her pulling the legs down - they've gotten a little skimpy after a whopping what...three months of wear), I decided that a giant Old Navy store in the nosebleed North would be a great place to venture in desperate attempt to kill time before dinner. I'd buy a pack or two of pj's, it's big enough for her move around a bit and there are usually so many kids in that shopping plaza that she probably won't be the worst-behaved child there. Well, whatever happened (and it wasn't pretty)...her baby rat stuffed animal was lost. Now, there is a second baby rat in the rat family - but coming home and having to tell these two that one of their daughters was probably gone forever?



Broke. My. Heart. Another day I'll go into my thoughts on stuffies, and their purpose and value and a whole lot of stuff that takes up way too many of my brain cells. Seriously, I'm a little teary. I mean, if, as I thought when I was little, these guys do have little lives a la Velveteen Rabbit when we're away, then it's just too awful to think about. We lost one of Mommy and Daddy Rat's BABIES. I drove back to the store, I left an illustrated note, I wandered the aisles with Josephine who was pitifully calling "Baby At, Baby At, Wheah ah oooo?". You know what happened, don't you? Someone's kid took it. Every employee in the store was asked, the Lost and Found dumped. I crawled under racks. What are the chances that some parent will say to their kid "Where did you get that? We have to return it! Some little sweet child will be missing it!" and make the trek? Nil, I'm sure. We live in a horrible world sometimes. Why do I care? It's not like it's her dearest stuffed animal friend - it's just that this one had the appearanace of belonging to two parental stuffed animals. Hits close to home.

See, Josie LOVES playing this game called "What's Your Name?" with her toys. It's really just a game where they do stuff and it's whatever she wants it to be...but she starts it by asking us "I want to play What's Yooah Nayme." and then we wait for her to clue us in as to what direction to take it in. Any of her guys will do, but the rat family is ideal. She often uses them to act out our family situations, like "Daddy Rat has lint in his bellybutton." and "Mommy Rat lights matches in the bathroom." and "Don't run away from Mommy Rat, Baby Rat - oo might det huht." Because there are two baby rats, and she doesn't really get what siblings are, one is usually left out anyway. So she still has a family unit that resembles ours to play with, but I am still, rather surprisingly, devastated that this happened.

Hence, the long post and the uneasy conscience tonight. Which accounts for the liberal application of this:



My secret stash of Cadbury Mini-Eggs, Smarties to bribe Josie with (and eat), 70% dark chocolate for extreme emergencies, bunny chocolates I bought from a Rabbit rescue (Buy chocolate bunnies as Easter presents - not real ones!) and I think some Hershey's kisses from a birthday party grab bag. Wait...what was that? In the lower corner? Let's pan out just a bit...yes, it is what you think it is.



But let's pull back a little further...



Aaaah...yes. That would explain the rather morbid post. In part. But you know, the cat poo counts for a lot. It's going to take me a long time to get over that.

What Is It With The Rude Food?

Okay, so the cupcakes I baked this morning came out looking a little funny. Is it me, or do you see breast-like protrusions and a few um...danglers? Does anyone else ever have a problem with their food looking um...reproductive?

Haiku for a Tuesday Spent With Friends.

Laundry basket behind chair
wrinkles in clothes like laugh lines --
afternoon visit.

More Updates...This Time About Things I HAVE Posted About Before, But I'm Not Linking To Them.

More updates...


Disappointingly, no other Elvii have appeared on our front lawn since Saturday night. That doesn't mean my life has been lacking in excitement! Because something else showed up as a surprise.

To back track a little, a while ago I bought some potatoes, and this one looked JUST like a boxing glove! I thought that was really cool!



And I've kept it around for a while. I don't know exactly why, except that our family likes potatoes a lot. Just not necessarily to eat.



Yes, "Turkey" is still around. In fact, he's having a nap on the sofa right now. His name, by the way, is "Mr. Tut".



But what showed up as a surprise? In my bowl of strawberries this morning - do you see it?



It is what you think it is. A phallus on my strawberry! Oh,Lucky me! AND I WAS HAVING IT WITH YOGURT! And, with only a toddler for company, I became newly grateful for blogging; because while I have a juvenile sense of humour, it's like an 12 year old boy's (okay, or a 16 year old girl's) sense of humour, not a two year old's - and one who hasn't seen the chicken skin yet, thank goodness.

And speaking of nuts, "How is Boo Boo post-surgery?" you ask. Boo Boo is still a jerk post-surgery. He is still a nut nut. Here is my other surprise this morning:





But Josephine loves him. Considering though, that she also loves a sweet potato.



But Boo Boo, despite the fact that he is really, genuinely, most sincerely a jerk, will be sticking around a while. I even got a new inhaler, which proves I'm willing to put up with him a while longer.

Weekend Update...About Things I Haven't Mentioned Before, Mostly.

Josie finds the most endearing ways to entertain herself while I get a few things done. While I was working on a little project Friday morning:


(A sneak peek at an egg cosy for this . )


She amused herself with her little elephant and the dirty laundry. Yes, it is what you think it is:








On Saturday morning, we went to a birthday party for all the kids in our first playgroup. Nine toddlers, all sugared up and bouncing off the walls - thankfully in a room specially designed for the purpose. My daughter? The undersocialized only child with the shy mother? Only interested in speed - flying down the slides like she had waxed paper pants, and seeing how fast this baby could go:



And then, a lovely surprise. Is there an antonym for vandalism? Because sometime between bedtime on Saturday night and when we woke up at 8 for Coronation Street on Sunday, someone was kind enough to leave us this on the front lawn:



The gold one. We already had the other, which I was originally going to paint like marble (you know, so it would look classier), and put him on a classical pedestal - so I sprayed him with primer and then never got around to finishing the project. Imagine - in our slowly gentrifying neighbourhood, instead of stealing tacky lawn ornaments, someone left us one. I called the usual suspects, and nobody even sounded suspiciously like they might have done it. So it is a genuine mystery, and I just love it. Our neighbours, maybe not so much. But I've been inspired to paint the old one in silver now, you know, to complement the new guy. I can't tell how giddy this makes me - it's just so FUN to have something like this happen. I'm thinking of sending a story into the local paper. We'll happily accept any others as well. Imagine - a final resting place for those bad decorating decisions people have made in their youth. What do you think a flock of Elvis busts would be called?

This requires some kind of thank you, so I thought I'd leave a note in case the perp drives by to check on E. So this morning, I quickly painted this sign, with an old board and whatever black paint happened to be around:




More like, I painted it, put it in the mud room, and assumed that since Josie never goes in there it would be safe for fifteen minutes while it dried. So when Josie went into the kitchen by herself ostensibly to get some play-doh and was rather quiet and took too long... of course, like a moth to a flame, she was drawn to it and stuck her fingers in the wet paint and smeared it all over the board - and various parts of herself. So now, I'm doing laundry and scrubbing the not-toddler friendly and possibly toxic paint off her whenever I can catch her. We have her two-year old check up later today, and it'll be hard to explain to the doctor why she looks like I rolled her in tar.

"You see, someone left a bust of Elvis on our front lawn..."


In other news, I went grocery shopping on Sunday, and decided to splurge on the not-quite-deluxe, but certainly a step up, $12.97 pack of bumtwad.



30 rolls, 330 squares per roll (TWO-PLY!) and each square is 9.9cm long. Do you know what that means? Over 10,000 centimetres of...call it peace of mind. Really, I love the idea of using the "greener" product - but with half the number of sheets per roll, I think that despite the health of the world's ecosystem, I'd rather not be stranded again.

If You're Goin' There, You May As Well Go All The Way.

When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one blogger to dissolve the self-regulating bonds which have thus far prevented them from posting about certain subjects, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal importance to which these subjects occupy alongside other matters which are certainly more palatable, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

In other words, if you don't care to read the post about poop that could not be constrained, please back slowly away from the computer at this point.

Because, even though I think I may have broached the subject, even tangentially prior to this, I've never gone all the way.

But, you see, when even telling a friend about a ridiculous situation didn't get it off my chest, I realized that this is sometimes what blogging is for.

You see, the larger question I attempt to answer while also raising others is, when can one be sure that their offspring is going to love and care for them in their old age? Because it is so not happening for me right now. But how does get from Point A to Point B? Easy if you're me!

In the past, I have been tempted to post about poop. Mainly Josephine's. Because man, there have been some doozies.

For example, this one. You just know that wasn't a good scene when that adorable outfit was opened up.



This one was no better, despite its rather more innocuous appearance. In the front.



As recently as a few weeks ago, I took a picture of another rather unfortunate one:



Why do I do this? So I don't forget. Not the actual movements - cripes, although they were rather unforgettable, as you can see now. No, I mean, what it was like. The parenting part of it. The times when that was the last thing I needed (although, when is someone else's giant poo ever the first thing you need?). I've sent those pictures to my husband at work, just in case he thinks I'm eating bon bons and napping on the sofa all day in between watching talk shows. I sent one of those images to a cousin who's expecting, along with some advice as to what it's like to be a mom some days (and um, okay - I cc'd a few people who might appreciate that letter for its humourous qualities too). And this image?



Yes, it is what you think it is. A proud moment in the Good household. Not only proof that my daughter is well-fed, but has good form and a classic style - unfortunately, as of this point, a one-off. The image was sent to Daddy at work right after the occasion in an attempt to boost her enthusiasm for future productions, and I still use it as a shining example - but to no avail.

I have kept these images among the three thousand in our photo library, for various reasons. I suppose part of me has known that some day they would become part of a post.

I did not know it would be today, because of the situation that occurred yesterday.

We were a bit late to meet a friend at Riverdale Farm, because, well, I've been eating a lot of pineapple lately. Okay - half a pineapple per sitting, because it was so good and sweet and it might not ever be as good again. So, while this is not an unusual sight in the smallest room in the house:



(Usually because THIS is not an unusual sight in the room with the most tile:)



What I was confronted with in my time of need was worse. The cardboard tube with maybe three squares. Not only was it not good enough, my little partner in the powder room (we were working in tandem at that point) grabbed the last bit, and ran out of the room, leaving me with the barest shred of a square.

As I encouraged her to return with it, I received a version of the increasingly oft-heard refrain "I can't. I'm just busy." She then had a blast, running around the upstairs in gleeful no-pantsedness, while I pondered my options.

The cardboard tube was deemed not suitable. Not absorbent enough.
The pages of Vanity Fair, too glossy and while in many cases appropriate - potentially a clog hazard.

And then, Josie ran into the other room, and made a puddle on the floor, dropping the toilet paper into it, thus drowning that hope, meager as it was. Normally, when she spills something, she is happy to get a towel and wipe it up. But this time, when I asked her to, I heard "No, I can't. I'm just busy." in that airy, patrician-type voice she must get from reading Vanity Fair. And her bare feet pattered away into the bedroom, where I knew she was going to do some bouncing on the bed - dangerous and potentially messy. I had to make a decision.

Do I do the penguin walk to the closet to get a fresh roll (it was locked, because cleaning supplies are in there so I couldn't ask Josie to get me some)?

Do I use something that would require a do-over once I got hold of some fresh t.p.? (The Richie Rich comic book I received as part of the Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Extravaganza Exchange was in the magazine rack - but how could I do that to something that had been around since 1979, even if the newsprint is somewhat more obliging to the the task than the glossies)?

Then, I leaned back and it occurred to me...



Some of those washcloths are just from the dollar store...

I leaned forward to check on Josephine. And I saw it. The perfect solution. Even better than toilet paper.

I said to Josephine, in my nicest, yet still nonchalant tone that wouldn't clue her in to how much power she held over my situation - a tone implying the most wonderful,fun thing to do would be to take me up on my suggestion, you know, if she wanted to. Like it was her idea even..."No, I just can't. I'm just busy."

Then, I put a little more urgency into it. I let her know that Mommy really needed her help, and would she please just..."No, I'm very busy. I just can't."

Stern Mommy said, "Josephine, please..." "Oh, I just can't. I'm very busy."

Desperate Mommy laid all her cards on the table, explaining pedantically exactly what she needed Josephine to do...and why. While the explanation brought a little mirth to Josephine's day, it in no way compelled her to help me in the slightest.

And her size nines pattered all around the upstairs, tracking her little puddle of pee from room to room. Computer keys were being tapped. An enamel mug of crayons were spilled. Books were open and riffled through and discarded. Towels were pulled off the shelf. This was becoming more dire by the minute, and I was due to meet a friend and well, who wants to spend any more time than necessary in my position?

I considered the penguin walk again - this time toward the object that would provide the optimal solution, and more comfort than I'd originally bargained for. Once again, I tried every tactic to get my daughter - the over eight pound baby that felt like a brick of concrete wrapped in heated tinfoil and barbed wire that I pushed out my cooch to just. Please. Help. Mommy. NOW. The dear child, whose many, many dirty diapers I have cleaned. Let's say, at least two poopy diapers a day for the last two years would mean 1460 poops, right? But it's been a little over two years, and there certainly have been more than two poops on some days, though only one on others. Plus, you know, that ONE in the potty. So let's make that about 1700 poops, for a nice round number. The dear child, who is and was fully capable of getting me what I needed more than anything in the world at that moment, just plain wouldn't. My brilliant idea - thwarted in simple execution by the whims of a capricious child.

Wipes. See them there? On the bed with the beam of light bathing them in its heavenly glow? They were still there this morning, which was in part, why I was still compelled to post about this. So close...yet so far.



But what would make this more compelling than any other scatological story?

It's because more than just an immediate measure of comfort was wrested from my grasp. It's because I feel like a certain amount of pleasure I've taken in helping my child to become a caring, polite and helpful person even at two years old has been diminished, because when put to the test, she failed not only miserably, but was blasé about it as well. I mean, what happens when I send her out into the world, and she's the lady in the next stall who just can't "spare a square"? I will have utterly failed as a parent if I rear a monster like that!

Because I've realized that I cannot count on my dear, beloved, beautiful, sweet and probably only child to help me in a time of need; not because she's incapable, but because she just can't. She's very busy.

So I'm ordering The Clapper . What if it's dark and I need a light? The child who turns lights off and on for fun so often that the neighbours must think there's a disco with strobe lights in our dining room might decide in an inopportune moment that she simply can't do it anymore. I'll be looking into Meals on Wheels. Checking out nice nursing homes. A car service. Back-scratchers. All sorts of personal aids , because who knows what could befall me, if even now at 36 I have a simple request that cannot be met - at 96, I need someone to oh, I don't know - chew my food for me?

Oh...and Medic Alert . Definitely medic alert. "Help! I've fallen and my daughter is too busy!"






Hahahaha...no. It's not that funny. Because I'm an only daughter myself, and when I hear my mother complain about her sisters when it comes time to care for my grandmother, I cringe a little. I also don't think she's planned well for her own future, or my father's . At least, I don't know and haven't asked. I think that not only do I indeed need to be smarter and make better plans for myself and Steve, but I need to start asking the hard questions of my own folks. And so, the simple happenstance that I did not check first to see if there was enough toilet paper for my purposes in the throne room yesterday (or ahem, the fact that the person before me cough coughStevecough cough did not leave enough - a post for another day) led me to ponder what might happen should I find myself in a worse state of decripitude. See? Funny poo story to despairing of my future and making sure my daughter isn't my sole supplier of aid and comfort should I become incapacitated. Would you like to spend a day in my life? I assure you I'll leave enough toilet paper.



Oh...I forgot to tell you what I did. Oh well.