tollipop

over the weekend...

 I rode my bike.

Dear reader, you would not believe the snake I saw out there!  Yes, I stopped to check it out.  I very nearly fell off my bike in awe.  The poor fellow was the victim of a badly timed road crossing, and all the little desert creatures trying to snack upon him were in risk of a similar fate, so I used a stick to relocate the luncheon to higher ground. 

The weight of the carcass snapped my stick in half. 

Snap!  Flop!  Wiggle!

Dear reader, imagine how high I jumped because really, weren't you wondering if that snake was faking it, too?  I think we're all familiar with a snake's capacity to play dead, when in reality it may be waiting to wrap its coils around a conscientious cyclist and drag her down to its lair of bones, laminate, and ironic décor.  The serpentine penchant for shag carpet is a well known fact around these parts. 

Just to clarify--this one really was dead.  But I swear it wiggled. 

By the by, do I really think people come to Tollipop hoping for a good snake story?  Probably not.  But this much you should know about me: some of my fondest moments have been spent chasing snakes, catching frogs, and running with wolves. 

Yet I still adore Jane Austen. 

What can I tell you?  Some people are just special that way.

I made the girls clean their room.  Finally, a culprit for all that mysterious clutter was discovered!  What a relief, as I was beginning to consider my young charges to be on the slovenly end of the spectrum.  Note to self: have some faith.  I should have known it was the hamster all along. 

 

I worked on more sad, wistful girls.

 

I wish I had a dress of this color.  If I had a dress of this color, I would never be sad.  I would only be wistful.

Caroline lasered this minuet into smithereens with her look of intense concentration.  In other news, we attended her friend's violin recital...a boy with a similar capacity for musical expression.  One day they may play a duet together and their collective ferocity will cause a nuclear meltdown.

 
Finally, we started another project.  I hesitate to mention this as I consider my (temporarily) stalled Hundred Dresses Project, my lagging goal of weekly shop updates, my ludicrous plans for a tidy studio...why should I further reveal my penchant for failure?  Why should I hold myself up to the scrutiny of the world?! 

Because this project is really cool...can you guess what it might be?  The girls and I are working on it together.  Hopefully they will help me see this through but let's face it, we are related--a fact which doesn't bode well in anyone's favor.

I will certainly give you updates if, indeed, there are any to be had.  But in case this is as good as it gets, isn't Sophie's gingerbread house a sheer delight?!

when tollipop girls languish

Poor Sophie has been laid out with the ague lately.  And what is ague, you say?  Oh, dear reader, what isn't ague?  Yes, it could be fever.  Possibly fatigue.  And let us not rule out the fact it could be that state of mind when one is almost turning twelve.  But why should we trouble ourselves with the sordid history of a word only the French have any business to pronounce?  Voyons donc!  Suffice it to say every great heroine seems to have her dance card monopolized by this insipid, groping rake from time to time.

She was quite weakened, really.  The only thing she could muster was a needle and thread, along with the occasional request for bon bons, smelling salts, and the express desire that no one, least of all Mr. Darcy, be privvy to her suffering.  As long as the Tollipop headmistress was intimately privvy, such would suffice. 

But look how nicely her fancywork is coming along!  It would seem Miss Sophie is well suited to languish on the chesterfield every now and then.

And when our heroine had recovered her strength sufficient to venture out-of-doors, didn't she have the grandest satchel in all the land?

Which brings me to my own fancywork...you know, the one that is being french-dotted from here to Kiev?  Perhaps a day on the chesterfield, surrounded by bon bons and the soothing ministrations of three young candy stripers is the very prescription for a cure to this eternal work in progress.

what i love about this girl

 

:: Conversation while driving home from music lessons the other day ::

Izzy:  Mom, do you ever look at people you pass on the street and wonder--

Me:  Who they are?  Where they come from? 

Izzy:  Yeah.  And, like, what they're thinking about.

Me:  All the time.

Izzy:  Me too.

 

a real-life horror story: the cookies are calling from within the house!

Dear reader, I know Halloween is over and done with, but this is really scary!  The girls went off to school this morning and I thought I was the only one home...when suddenly I realized I was anything but alone.

:: cue sinister music :: 

This plate of sugar cookies was calling my name...

It all started innocently enough, as spooky stories are wont to do.  The girls were bored and looking for a bit of fun.  Should we invite our friends to stay at an abandoned cabin out in the middle of the woods?  On prom night?  When one of our group was involved in a hit-and-run last summer and the local sporting goods store just reported a recent theft of hockey masks?

No!  Much safer to stay home and make sugar cookies!

 

What could possibly go wrong, other than the danger of one sister wishing to micromanage the other?

 
It's just so difficult to stand by and watch a cookie being cut out all wrong!

 
Good thing the little one cares mainly about snitching in the dough.

 

But back to my dilemma--look how close those cookies came just now!  Close enough to practically smear themselves across my face!  I tried to lock myself in the studio, but they simply dragged themselves up the stairs and stabbed a hole through the door with a paring knife. 

And of course they left a note for my husband, forged in my own handwriting, saying I had to suddenly leave town to resolve some immigration issues. 

Roger, since when would I leave you a note covered in sprinkles? (wait, don't answer that)  Better yet--since when would I deal with immigration issues??

Hopefully he's going to put two and two together, rush home (of course his car won't start), and tear this demented plate of cookies out of my trembling hands. 

Only it's not going to be a plate of cookies by then, is it?  The only evidence of my ordeal will be a light dusting of crumbs stuck to my chin, my catatonic eyes, and a sugar-induced inability to speak in coherent sentences.

What can I tell you, dear reader?  A good fright should always come with a delicious thrill.

desert stroll

Dear reader, the desert is so lovely at this time of year.  As Monday was a holiday from school, the girls and I (minus Sophie, who was feeling under the weather) decided to go for a little walk.

You know the feeling one gets when one sees her children holding hands?  Like eating an Everlasting Gobstopper?  Like drinking a mango lassi?  Like everything good just got even better and everything bad flies away because the good stuff took up all the room?

 

Let's keep that feeling going a little longer, shall we?

 
The desert...it's a bit like being on another planet.  Have you ever seen such a stark, strange, beautiful landscape?  Sometimes I half expect to meet the Little Prince out here. 

 

Shhh.  Potential lizard sighting.

 

Sometimes I like to come here and think about things, though it is a rare occasion when I have a moment to do so.

 

But that is the beautiful thing about the mind.  I can close my eyes and feel myself here, just as if the moment had presented itself after all.

a belated thank you note...

Dear reader, from time to time the loveliest thing occurs, which is when someone decides to mention Tollipop or feature my artwork on her blog.  It is always an unexpected delight, and while I'm not especially adroit at copying and pasting those "as seen in" buttons, I would feel not even moderately well-behaved if I failed to acknowledge these kind gestures.

So first of all, a heart felt thank you to Rose of The Laughing Monkey, who decided to take a whack at my pumpkin chocolate chip cookie recipe and wrote about the experience in a way that truly speaks to my heart. 

Thank you to Teri, who featured my work on her delightful site Living a Handmade Life.  It is definitely worth a visit to appreciate Teri's inspiring collections of handmade items.  Such great gift ideas!

My thanks also to the lovely Liana, who featured my work on Mixed Plate.  Many pretty things to look at over there.

I must admit I have been negligent in expressing my thanks for these little spotlights in the past.  It's not that I mean to be overly gauche (though I am left-handed), it's just that I allow life to carry me out to sea on a daily basis and often fail to attend to these smaller yet important details.  It is a lovely feeling to be singled out for attention, and I appreciate it very much.

And finally, I would like to thank the Cookie Monster, without whose vibrant shade of blue these tights would have never been possible... 
  

the organic approach

Caroline learned how to ride a bike over the weekend.  For those of you whose eyebrows are arching to heaven over the fact she's nearly seven years old, I don't know what to tell you.  I'm pretty much taking the organic approach to raising this child. 

Organic as in much too frazzled to force the issue.

Here's a good one, though: when she came inside after a morning of being cheered for her every maneuver, I heard her crow, "I'm rich!  I'm glorious!  I just learned how to ride a bike!"

Funny, that's how I feel about bike riding, too.

Some people may frown upon the use of wedding silver to carve pumpkins.  To such critics, I also don't know what to say.  I think the organic approach may be applied to this situation, as well.

Unfortunately, I am not one of those moms who comes through in the clutch with creative, handspun Halloween costumes.  And not for lack of a proper upbringing, either.  My mom churned out clown costume after cheetah after pirate on her trusty sewing machine.  And she certainly made the effort to pass along her wisdom.  But then she found out I was left-handed and everything required an inverted explanation, so in order to salvage our relationship and prevent my brain from turning inside out, she took the organic approach with me and sewing.

I do wish I was a better Halloween mom.  I love seeing the costume ideas and innovation other parents conceive.  I consider myself a creative person, so I really don't know what to say for myself on the matter.  How many times can one use the words organic approach before one is clobbered over the head?

I do, however, want to call your attention to Caroline's mask of intrigue...Sophie made it and I just love when such moments of kindness and creativity bloom between sisters.

And as for the jack-o-lanterns...well, mine is called Doc Holliday.  Sophie's looks a bit like Jack Nicholson à la The Shining, but she had no idea who that was (thank goodness, come to think of it).  As far as I know, we still haven't given it a name. 

I'm really much too frazzled to force the issue.

new polarity lockets...and a request for your opinion

Dear reader, Cat of Polarity contacted me recently with the proposal to offer a new Tollipop image on her super keen handmade lockets.  Have you ever beheld a Polarity locket?  They are delightful. 

Lockets, as we all know, are no ordinary trinkets.  Depending on its contents, a locket may be a portal to the past, a token of intrigue, a tangible remnant of feelings buried deep within the heart.

What would you put inside your locket?  Shhh...don't tell!  The best lockets are the ones whose contents are kept in secret.

At any rate, Cat and I were contemplating possible Tollipop images to include on her new design.  And I wondered about your opinion.  Do you have a favorite Tollipop drawing you'd like to see captured on a Polarity locket? 

I would dearly love to know your thoughts on the matter!

work in progress: the studio, the drawings, myself...

Dear reader, tonight I'm sitting in my studio revelling in a glorious sense of accomplishment.  Why?  Because I removed all the clutter from my work table and washed every square inch of it. Then I returned almost everything to its original place. 

So to recap: still quite cluttered, but squeaky clean.

Sooner or later my studio and I are headed for a little tête à tête.  And we will not be gazing into each other's eyes over a baguette and cheese with nice music playing in the background.  Non.  Something needs to happen here.  The other day my darling niece was seated on my lap in this very spot when she gently suggested, "Auntie Kirsten, do you think we should do some organizing?"  I mean, she couldn't even say the word that great, but she knew it needed to happen.

Dear reader, if only you could see inside my brain.  It lacks the organizing cell.  You know how some people can survey chaos and visualize a system for ordering it?  I don't have that.  I actually get panicky if I am cleaning up someone else's kitchen because I honestly cannot see the process.  The only reason I'm good at cleaning my own kitchen is because over the years I've become familiar with a series of steps which yield order to this one particular room.

{Moment of silence as I pause to consider if, indeed, I am any good at cleaning my kitchen...} 

Packing is another grey zone.  Heaven forbid we ever move from this house.  But even for smaller events, such as a weekend trip, no one in my family trusts me to account for our luggage.  And why should they?  How many times has Sophie gone without pajamas?  How often have the girls had to pool their underwear?  How many years of therapy have been heaped upon poor Izzy when she surveys the suitcase and realizes it contains nothing in her size? 

During the summer we went to the mountains with my brother's family.  Max asked his mom for a sweater and she was able to tell him in exactly which bag, plotting the coordinates within that bag, the item was packed.  I do believe it fit him, too. 

I nearly fell off my chair.

Even though the wires in my head are snarled like a pit of vipers, I do appreciate order.  In fact, I crave it.  And I strive to achieve it, believe it or not (that last plea is to my husband, my children, the dear sister I grew up sharing a room with, and her children who've heard all the horror stories regarding that experience). 

And that is why my studio and I are headed for a showdown.  It is basically the last frontier of my mainly civilized house.  It is like the wild West within my refined Boston tea parlor of a dwelling.  I practically keep a burro in there.  And it is time for that burro to move on.

When I approached my husband on the matter, he listened to me rave for a few minutes, then advised me not to consider this project on the studio level.  He told me to start with the work table as my project.  And he wouldn't even tell me what comes next.  Wow.  Like, what is that?  Is the data even in on such controversial therapy?  But you would not believe how much that piece of advice calmed me down. 

That's why I pay him the big bucks. 

So I am starting.  A little here, a little there.  I think it's important that creative space is not consumed by chaos.  Some friendly clutter, perhaps.  But I hardly need encouragement in that department.

I'll let you know how it goes. 

In the meantime, here are a few wee originals I'm working on.  They are very sweet.  They have a certain wistful element, but they also seem so prim and methodical...like the kind of girl who would never misplace her favorite paintbrush, who would always pack the right amount of underwear, who could offer a succinct explanation as to why she is having her children take music lessons.  You know.  That kind of girl.

 
Wishing you a weekend of the loveliest, spookiest sort...

biocool *is* cool

Dear reader, today was full of lovely twists and turns.  After spending the morning helping with an upcoming musical fundraiser event, I was practically faint with hunger.  So I consulted my list and realized it paled in importance with the opportunity to grab lunch with my friend, Jennifer.  Yes, I scrapped my charted activities in favor of impulse.  Which actually fulfills a fine print clause on my list to be more spontaneous, if one may stipulate to such a thing.

I promise to stop talking about this list by the way--it has my sister worried there's an imposter at Tollipop. 

At any rate, Jennifer and I went to the Tofu Hut, a lovely establishment specializing in Korean cuisine.  Korean, by the way, is code for straight up awesome.  My friend's heritage is Korean.  Lunch was Korean.  And these little yogurtesque drinks they served may or may not be Korean, but they were straight up awesome. 

So much so that after lunch Jennifer offered to accompany me to a local supermarket, a sprawling equivalent of a Korean Ikea, so I could purchase some Biocool for myself. 

When the girls came home from school, didn't I greet them with a lovely surprise?  I actually made the mistake of telling Caroline it was a love potion, which immediately aroused her keen 1st grader suspicions. 

"A love potion for what?," she demanded.  "For your stomach.  It's a love potion for your stomach," I hastily amended. 

But by then it didn't matter.  In an exquisite display of ladylike behavior, the Biocool was guzzled and gone, and Caroline quite readily admits her stomach is in love after all.