Some Of These Days Are Not Like The Others.

We were just running errands, and I only intended to get some fabric and notions, really; but it was love at first sight. She'd been wanting to wear a white unicorn costume for Halloween, because she and her daddy watch some gawdawful videos of "The Last Unicorn" nearly every night before bed. I'd been fending her off with "Well, there's a whole month until Halloween!" and "We could make something!" and "Don't you want to be the Fox and the Hound with Molly? Or Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner with Daddy?"

Denied.


Because it was purple! And sparkly! With WINGS! Within a blink, the azure had been eclipsed by pure pupil, and the Margaret Keane eyes were fixed upon me. I succumbed to their power.


Through the store. And checkout (I had visions of having to put her on the conveyor belt and rolling her across the scanner, but it wasn't necessary). I had to "fly" her across the parking lot to the car - you know - the horizontal hold, like a roll of carpet or something.



Dinner at the Goof...


A walk on the boardwalk...


Ice cream at Ed's (it's pumpkin ice cream time, btw)



Objects in the rear view mirrors are always sillier than they appear...



Dinner for the babies...


She fell asleep watching this:


And I didn't have the heart to tell her through it all that it's just a little too small.


If you see this costume anywhere in the larger size, for 6-7 year olds, would you let me know? Please?

My Karma Ran Over My Dogma

And so, the car was packed, and I came out from my parent's apartment, maps in hand and asked Steve and Josie "Where is Molly?"

She'd been happily licking out a peanut-butter stuffed bone in the living room. I knew Josie had let herself out to help Steve (or, you know, to get away from my shushing), so the "too quiet" part never occurred to me, as I tried to find some side routes on the map, sitting at my mom's plastic-covered dining room table and inhaling stale potpurri.

Heart in throat, I called her, hoping that Molly was just eating rabbit poo behind the building, as is her wont. But I knew that it had been ten minutes or so that she'd been out, and she's a runner. Steve and Josie walked around and called her, and I jumped in our own car, rationalizing that she'd recognize it before she'd clue into me in the rented car (she's about as sharp as a sack of wet mice, if you didn't know), and began driving slowly, calling out the window in the slight drizzle, and praying I wouldn't see her furry tri-coloured carcass on the road. Because that would really cast a pall on the first "real" vacation we've had in four years, wouldn't it? Craning to see into back yards, thinking sometimes that I shouldn't call her when I was on a busier street so she wouldn't run into traffic (she's stupid that way), and asking strangers, I alternately fought then conjured hysteria.

I came back to my folks' home, and thought about karma - can it work within the same lifetime? On our visit there two weeks before, I'd found a stray dog when walking Molly. It had been on a Sunday, so the SPCA was closed, and I called the Dog Warden, whose closed office's message directed me to the police. As I left the stray's information with dispatch, various family members rolling eyeballs at how I often put myself out over such things, I just hoped I was doing some good. So the number and procedure were handy now that it was Molly's turn, and the Warden's office was open. Leaving Molly's description (Bassetty, slobbery, doofusy, purple collar), I left my cel number and prepared to cruise the neighbourhood again. I called my dad's cel, hoping they'd come home quickly from the racetrack to help look (fat chance) - and while I was on the line, the Dog Warden's office beeped in. Thank goodness that unlike us, my parents don't mind spending the extra money on Call Waiting, and that when I'm at their house, I indulge myself in the rudeness of using it.

Molly had been picked up by a police officer, who'd just dropped her off. Dashing up to the pound, I thanked lucky stars, good karma and any powers that be that we weren't going to have to ruin Josie's first big vacation by explaining how pets die from being hit by cars, or run away forever, especially when little girls let them out of the house by accident and don't tell their mommies and daddies they did and the daddies in the family don't notice and the mommies couldn't have known. As I pulled up and looked into the chain-link kennels at the motley crew (I know - I wanted to type Mötley Crüe too) of doggie characters, I could hear Molly baying inside the building. The kind warden didn't even charge me the $25 fee, because she didn't even fill out the paperwork, and she just wanted the very loud slobbery beast to leave.

So, on the way back home with the fugitive, I stopped at a PetSmart (being grateful, for once, for charmless large chain stores in every American suburb) to have a tag made up for Molly's collar with my parents' address. There's your tip -- if you're traveling with your pet, or boarding it - make sure the temporary info is handy or available. Otherwise, the warden would have been calling our number in Canada, and I'd never have thought in my panic to call home to get the message if someone else had found her.

That meant that our long drive started later than we'd planned, or hoped, or had even realized it might. Still, we kept to the side routes, watching the fog roll in as we entered Pennsylvania.

We passed through small towns, smiling at the diagonal parking and the low-key feel - but also not seeing any places that begged us to stop and explore. You'd think they roll up the sidewalks on a Saturday evening.


We zigged, and zagged, and drove through some of the many state parks. At one in particular, we stopped in an area that was created as an elk and deer refuge. It also had bat boxes, with special bat nursery boxes to encourage the large local population. It was a magical little break.


You see, one of Josie's dearest wishes for the trip was to see deer on the side of the road. After she fell asleep in the car, the deer would come out, and Steve would glimpse them. You know, they'd be putting on the deer show at the side of the road, looking gentle and wild and still, an entire deer family one time - but Josie didn't see any, and was eager to. And whining to.

So, when we stopped off at this place, where deer were supposed to come in the hour before twilight, we had our hopes up. Crickets hopped around our ankles, the place quiet and misty and lovely. Of course no deer came, they were probably snickering at the silly tourists from behind the bushes.



We had to move on, the only dream realized that of Josie's being the one peeing in nature. She really wanted to pee by a tree, as at one point Steve and I had to make a roadside pitstop, though she didn't have to go then. It had become a mission for her, one better accomplished sooner, as whining about wanting to pee by a tree too is just so ridiculous.

As much as we like rural routes, there gets to a point where it's blah blah blah train tracks blah blah blah mountain ahead blah blah blah small town. Then, we had to turn back due to a accident on one road, where it could have been a matter of a ten minute wait or a two hour wait. Then, another trip along blah blah blah train tracks blah blah blah mountain ahead blah blah blah small town - in the growing darkness, with no small motels or any place to stay in sight. After too much time in the glare of oncoming brights on twisty roads with sheer drops on one side and cliffs on the other, we headed to a Holiday Inn off the highway. So, no to the Good family staying at a quirky motel - it was puffy pillows and a pool and a Denny's for dinner. No view, no charm. The only redeeming feature, apart from the fact that Josie loved the pool, was that Steve found combs in the vending machine. The well-designed package was appealing, but it was when it was opened to show the comb had been molded with the word "unbreakable" that we felt it was fate.


One of Steve's tattoos is shown here, and he got it because as a family, we're unbreakable (like Ace rubber combs, if you don't have a remarkable grasp of the trivial like we do).


Now, the funniest thing from when Steve got his latest tattoo was that the artist remarked, in response to Steve's question about how the TV shows like Miami Ink have changed tattooing was "Well, the biggest problem is that people think I give a shit about why they're getting a tattoo." But in this case, it was important for our family to be reminded that though we have a stupid wandering dog, the much needed and anticipated road trip was fizzling already, and a Mustang is really too small for a comfortable trip through an America that is growing ever more bland - we're unbreakable.

Sowing and Reaping

Sowing and Growing:


Growing Josephine:

Notes on a new daycare we're exploring today...



Does anyone else doodle like this? I can't stop myself.


Growing my garden:

New "bones" waiting to be planted, so the can grow a bit before snow falls...


A new Diabolo Ninebark, a green Smokebush, and this wee bright bush. Forty percent off at the garden centre means I can't not buy them. And I'm going back for more.


Grown, then Reaping:

My experiment with carrots didn't quite work. "The Easter Bunny" left carrot seeds in Josie's basket. We planted a tub of them, but I decided not to thin them, as my favourite part of the Royal Winter Fair is the weird vegetables like these:




So, instead of being able to pull up one ginormous washtub-sized mass of carrots, we ended up with hundreds and hundreds of wee stubby mini carrots. The parsley did very well, though it didn't have any expectations beyond providing an activity for Josie. "Go pick some parsley for dinner!" I'd tell her, so I could quickly stuff a handful of chocolate chips from the baking cupboard in my mouth while stirring the pots...



But, when we were invited to a barbecue the other night, and our hosts had recently added a bunny named Spencer to the family, all I could think was "These would make the perfect bunny-warming present!"

As well, it allowed me to let go of some of the wonderful white milk glass flowerpots I'd amassed. I've been very good about de-cluttering lately. For me. I do realize that not many people collect twenty to thirty of these little pedestal-based flowerpots "just in case". So, if you haven't been the lucky recipient of one yet - too bad. These were the last of my stash, as I sold the rest to Forest & Co. and now they'll cost lots of money if someone wants to buy them.

It's how I've earned some money to afford a Porcelain Berry vine I've had a crush on. And daycare.

I'm also having a garage sale next week. Let me know if you're not a creepy weirdo and want directions so you can come and buy some really really neat stuff.

The Long and Winding Road

A while back, we began considering vacation destinations, since, for the first time in seventyhundred years, Steve has a job that not only offers paid vacations, but values him so much that it's not likely a freelancer would worm his way into the position in Steve's absence. While Austin, TX is our first choice, always, in our hearts we knew it wasn't the right time to bring Josephine. It's not just that she's not up to or of age for a Chicken Shit Sunday at Ginny's; or that she'd resent being hauled around my favourite Antique Show in the world...it's just that we think she deserved more fun of some other kind.

When the Populuxe blog mentioned the Starlux, we started looking at Wildwood, NJ for the ultimate destination on our road trip, even though we had to explain WHY we were going to vacation in New Jersey every time we told someone. So, after explaining about Morey's Piers and the Doo Wop Preservation League, people began to understand why a motel district might be a hot spot for our family - for an artist like Steve, a trip studying vintage sign design also becomes a tax write off! After all, he designed the neon sign for the Cadillac Lounge, so it's totally justifiable. Totally. (If you go to that site, by the way - have fun finding us in the slide show!)


Then it came time to find places to hit along the way. I looked at staying at working farms in Pennsylvania and Josephine and I became excited about staying at one called Verdant View - one that strongly attracted us with its promise of a friendly family, a fainting goat and miniature donkey. Steve didn't want his first vacation in four years to involve any farm smells, if at all possible, though he admits he would like a shot at startling Goatee one day. Plus, it's located in Paradise. "Going to Paradise!" on vacation sounds much better than "Goin' to New Jersey!". I think we'll still go there one day - maybe later this fall - since it sounds wonderful. Also considered was the New Red Caboose Motel, a step in the kitschy direction. In the end, we just hoped we'd find something charming en route, and decided to wing it. It's always served us well in the past - how would we have ever found Blossom's Motel otherwise, thus ending up with our Josephine Blossom Good?


We looked at various routes, our main hope: avoiding Scranton, PA. We've found ourselves passing through there too often on road trips over the years, and have learned that after dark, the rest stop eat and pee options are primarily a Ground Round at a yucky mall, or Pub Charles. What's the problem with Pub Charles? Well, nothing, really...just that memory of having to pee desperately, and stopping at the first interesting looking place that was open. It's deep-rooted now, the remembrance of placing my hand on the door, getting ready to walk in, pushing open the door slightly, hearing the strains of "Sweet Emotion" and knowing that well, it was going to be awkward adhering to our family's official road trip policy of making a withdrawal from any place we make "a deposit". In our family's vernacular, Pub Charles has become known as "Club Chub".

So, as I looked over the maps at my parents' home, sitting at the plastic-covered dining room table, and Steve and Josie loaded the last bags into rental car (didn't I mention that Budget was out of mid-sized four doors, and our only option was to take the red Mustang? I just thought I'd mention that again, but not because it's fun, but because the 'stang had very little room for a family's vacation accoutrements, and so there was lots of wedging to do)...Molly slipped out the door and ran away.

Never Miss An Opportunity To Compliment A Friend.

It's been a busy summer, and what with vacations and work and school starting and all, Josie and I have been missing our friends more than a little lately.


We're at the store today, and just finished making a little craft. We'd made some of these a few weeks ago, but today Josie asked me to make Josie and Alice Dolls.


I had to smile when she said...

"And here is Kate!"

So, just in case you were wondering what Kate really looks like:

Little Marla Paper

This is nothing - you should see my back.


Or, maybe you shouldn't.


In fact, if you promise not to exhale near me, I will promise to try not to get my peeling skin flakes all over you and anything or anyone else near by.


I will not promise not to rub myself up against door frames though, because I'm SO ITCHY. And I know I will still occasionally search for a really large satisfying piece of sheer dry skin to tear off and examine, and then I will have to surreptitiously stuff into a pocket or something if I don't have a good place to dispose of it, this all happening over the next few days as I shed and peel in an alarming fashion.

Please try not to think of how much of my DNA is becoming part of the air we're breathing, in large and small curls and wisps of papery scattered ash-like bits, flying off me in a cloud like dirt around Pigpen, or embers up a chimney, or washing down the drain as I attempt to speed the sloughing and attend the itching with any device I can get my hands on.

So far I have used:

washcloths
towels
dish scrubbing brush
dish scrubbing pads
fingers
the lip of a shampoo bottle
the corners of a book
a small dry tree branch
a wooden spoon
a shoe
the edge of a shelf in a store
the rounded corner of a laundry basket (not satisfying)
a dog bone
a rope dog toy (one end in each hand, used in a side-to-side motion)
a wooden coat hanger
a wooden owl sculpture (it had pointy ears!)
a bungee cord (both the hook part and the cord)
a vacuum attachment

and I let the dog climb all over my back, offering her cheese to do so, so her claws could do a good job of giving me a scratch.


So, I wasn't merely stupid in letting myself get so sunburned - I'm continuing the madness in attempts to deal with the after-effects.

Such is me.

Once Upon A Time...

...I might have left a little maribou in cheap hotel rooms, here and there.

Now, we've left a little cheap maribou in an expensive motel room.

Only it's not from a naughty nightie from Frederick's this time, it's from a cheesy pink glittery feather boa whose owner wailed for a good fifteen minutes in the car on the way home about how the sparkly bits have all come out. She was sometimes being a raccoon princess wearing it, and she sometimes used the boa as a nest to keep her Lady and the Tramp stuffed animals warm. She, meaning, not me. She is three and a half, and gets more mileage out of a trampy accessory like that than I ever did.

And the hotel room was a pricey Holiday Inn in some boring Pennsylvania town, and we stayed there after a long and winding drive in the dark through the mountains, because there are no longer many charming roadside motels these days, as we found out; and toddlers like swimming pools and we like fluffy pillows and clean showers and a coffee pot in the room even if we don't want to use the crappy Folger's pods provided and so brought our own favourite brand, which meant that once I was considering using a panty liner wrapper for a filter since I couldn't even find a napkin.

Vacations aren't like they used to be. Now, this past one is all over with except for the unpacking. And the unpacking, and the unpacking. And now I'm off to go grocery shopping, as all the dog has had to eat today is peanut butter and crackers and we need a new brush for scrubbing the dishes. My sunburn is peeling so badly, and I'm so very itchy from it that I had to use the old one to slough off some of the skin between my shoulder blades that I couldn't reach to peel.

You'll Be Hearing About This...

The Road Beckons...

We're on a road trip.




The only car the rental agency had for us was a red mustang. Seriously.






And the best parts are the ones we couldn't plan.





That's why we take road trips.

Every Year is the Same, With a Difference.

Creatures of habit, we end the summer with a trip to the CNE. It's always a horrible and wonderful day.

The food is terrible, beyond the conveyor belt riding tiny donuts and other sticky fair treats. The beer, if you want/need one, is impossible to enjoy given the price and the other patrons in the tent - if you decide to stay in the tent, which you don't if you're us, because the last table was taken by the obviously underage snits ahead of us in line to get in. How dare they have kept us standing there with congealing pizza cheese while their ID's got squinted at and doubtfully approved! Then they took the last plastic lawn seats and open table while we looked around desperately, ending up on a window ledge nearby instead.

The other fair-goers also find ways to annoy me in ways they must be utterly unconscious of, because really - who else could leave the house in dirty flip-flops with heels that crusty, shuffling along as slow as cold sick, yet doing so with such exertion that great dark rings of oily fried perspiration seep through the clinging polyester blends on their backs; then after wandering aimlessly they stop short, causing me to smack into their stinking hulls (and I am always about nose to armpit in height compared to them), and they give ME a look that says I'm some kind of troglodyte? And I am speaking in the plural "they", because places like the CNE seem to lure these boors there like hornets to fresh steaming dog poo.


So, once in a while, sometimes, infrequently, it would clear up a bit, and I'd be able to enjoy a moment. Josie and I both love the petting zoo, especially when people got out of the way of my photo opportunities.


This wee goat was absolutely the cutest ever, in the world, bar none. There is no goat that is sweeter, or more darling and don't even try to show one to me. I love this one. It was all I could do not to stuff it in my purse and take it home.




The SuperDog show seemed only to highlight Molly's faults in Steve's eyes. He was quick to point out that there were no Super Basset Hounds. Admittedly, Molly's a bit dopey, and slobbery, and I don't think "elegant" is an adjective I might ever be able to apply to her... and well, she is attentive sometimes, but is generally rather boneheaded. But I wouldn't trade her for another, no matter how smart, fast, obedient and bright a dog like this is:


It was heartbreaking for us to see the six month old Rottie, though.


She was sweet, and gentle, and regal although she was young. We all caught our breath when we glimpsed her eyes, and though might not admit it now, he told me then: Steve got a bit choked up. We miss our old Beauty so much, and I still question sometimes whether another Rottie might have been a good pet again. But I do love Molly, and I love her even more for her differences, though Steve can't quite seem to embrace her yet. And it is kind of fun to call Molly "Stupor Dog".




There's always the duck game, with its guaranteed prize. Said prize is already broken, and that's being screamed about as I type.



Josephine is also big enough to go on more rides, and I particularly liked the little flying bees. Look at the bee-tocks! Look at the ittle shoes!


I've lost my stomach for rides of height and speed and spinning though. Only the tamest will do. No Ferris Wheels for me, not even the wee caterpiller ride (not so long ago, Josie called caterpillars "pashaputers", and Steve and I stood there and missed those days for a few seconds). As these bees were flying around in a circle, there was the option to raise them up or down by pulling a bar. I distrust rides of height and rotation that let passengers control them as such, and I freaked a bit as Josie begged us to go higher and higher and then to swoop lower and lower. She shrieked and giggled so much operator made a mention of it to me on our way out. I wonder, how shall the squeamish raise a daredevil?


And every year, we pass back through these gates, the sun in the pinkening sky to the left and the lights of the fair whirling and flashing to the right. This year, Josie walked through them with Steve instead of sleeping in the stroller. But once through, Steve swooped her up, and the difference this year was most noticeable in that her ankles dangle by his knees.



And next year she might not need to be carried at all.

*Visiting.

Yesterday I finally visited Nadine and Lucine (*this is a guest post at Martinis For Milk too), with Josephine in tow. It's amazing what conspires to keep people apart - dinners, bedtimes, capricious toddlers, the hours in the day which expand and contract and fluctuate in conjunction with the toddlers that seem to command them, despite what plans Mommies make... Isn't that the saying? Moms make plans, and children laugh?

The four of us piled on Nadine's bed. Four girls in one bed sounds like licentious, if that's all the information you have. But, as was the reality and as it is with mommies and babies, while Nadine might have been wearing lacy black underwear, looking tousled yet glowing, the other participants in this scene were costumed as such:

*One of us was wearing an adorable sleeper, with wee lambs on it. She was swaddled in a flannel blanket with lambs on it too (she was utterly be-lambed), and she slept and stretched and made the most lovely expressive faces as she was shuffled from one pair of welcoming arms to another. She had one of those puffy little blisters on the centre of her lip that comes from nursing, and at one point, we had to unwrap her her a bit to admire her most beautiful little feet.




*Another of us was wearing ugly plaid shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt. She did manage to bathe that morning, but after returning from visiting and shopping, noticed that her toothbrush was dry - meaning that without doubt, she was breathing out foulness all day. Also, since the only soap in the house is "purple" Ivory chosen by her toddler when shopping with her father, the other parts of her smelled of the combination of "Grandmaesque Faux Lavender" and her husband's failing deodorant. Please note that her husband's deodorant and antiperspirant, which is strong enough for a man, is NOT strong enough for a mommy with a toddler who are running errands around suburban Toronto on a hot day in a car without air conditioning.

*The last member of the ensemble was wearing overalls that had pancake batter drips all over them, a striped t-shirt and complementary sun hat - which were accessorized with Mardi Gras beads (no doubt with a high lead content), a pink net tutu, and messy hair. She was thrilled to be able to hold the baby, and did a pretty good job of it while the grown-ups hovered nervously. This little person also let fly a sneeze right in the swaddled one's face, and the one who birthed that infant quietly died on the spot. It then came to the stinky person to explain that the sneezer didn't have a cold...maybe it was just um...dust...which was of course, insinuating.


We chatted, and smelled baby head and offered help and had a nice visit all around. Mother and new daughter are both well and as lovely as anyone would hope to find; and Nadine told me it's just dawned on her that she can get excited about all of the lovely girly things to come. One of the most lovely bits of inspiration is right there in the room with them.



The girly things are trickling in - and as we mothers realize, until we find out who our daughters really are, the pleasure of sometimes indulging in crisp cotton ruffles and wee rosettes is fleetingly ours.


Nadine also assured me that she is writing her birth story, and that we'll hear from her soon.



Um...sure...Nadine.