tollipop

the joy of carpool

Last night, as I was waiting for the girls to finish with their music lessons, I opened my book of short stories by Ray Bradbury and these fell out.  

I guess Caroline needed a place to flatten her paper dolls.  

They were inspired by The Black Apple's Paper Doll Primer by Emily Martin, whom Caroline adores with fervent delight. 

When she received it as a gift for her birthday, she wanted so badly to cut the dolls out of the book and I wanted so badly for her to not.  

I told her all great artists get their start by copying the works of the masters, and it would seem she took this advice to heart.  

The next morning, as I was driving carpool, Izzy noticed the book of short stories sitting in the console.  So I told her a little about Ray Bradbury, how I love his way of writing which is plain and true and straight from the heart.  

I love that, dear reader.  I love stories which unfold themselves clearly, which do not make me feel like a dolt for failing to grasp all the obscure literary elements at play, for thinking a strawberry is just a strawberry when CLEARLY it symbolizes something much more unfathomable, for being so easily content with the basic plotline when some esoteric inside joke is going on beneath the surface.

Once I'd exhausted myself on that topic, I mentioned I wasn't as crazy about his stories which are set in space, or which deal with some futuristic breakdown in society, but rather the ones which play out in a small town, with everyday people and events.

Izzy asked me for an example of just such a story, which left me with no choice: I had to tell her about The Whole Town's Sleeping.  I had to, dear reader.  Like a moth to the flame, I could not stop myself.  Because that story is always on my mind.  I can't shake it!  It reads like the entire imagination of my childhood, right up until this present day if I don't keep an iron death grip on my brain.  

By the time we reached Morgan's house (I was driving carpool, remember), Izzy's eyes were so wide and we were both so jumpy that even a little old man walking his toy poodle down the sidewalk seemed sinister.  

When Morgan got in the car, Izzy asked: how did the story end?

We quickly brought Morgan up to date, barraging her with the details, then I opened the book and read the last page aloud (wait...was I supposed to be getting the kids to school??).

And my, didn't that cause a stir in the hen house?!  Weren't we all wide awake and in a tizzy at 6:30 in the morning?!

But we still had to pick up April and when she got in the car, Izzy insisted I give her the rundown as well.  So I did, all the time wondering if I'd be getting a phone call from disgruntled parents later that evening.  Rather than telling the whole story, however, I had Izzy reread the last page.  

Poor little April. The look on her face.  I doubt she'll ever be the same.

On the bright side, it led to a fascinating lecture (if I do say so, myself) on managing fears wherein the girls listened with bated breath as I expounded forth on a number of topics, some practical, some useless, but all of it good for a laugh.

On that note, I pulled up to the school and wished them a marvelous day. They got out, spirits riding high, talking and laughing a little louder than usual.  
Izzy turned to me and said: I love it when you drive us to school.

So do I, my dear girl.

 

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eta: I just realized this anecdote might be slightly more meaningful were I to summarize what actually happens in The Whole Town's Sleeping...but I can't, dear reader.  

I simply cannot.  

I've already relaxed the iron death grip on my brain once today and still haven't recovered from the shock.   

I'm beginning to suspect of everyone riding in the car this morning, I'm probably the greatest victim of all...

 

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p.s.  Dear reader...I must take a little break from this blog!  I feel as if I've been talking my head off lately, something I dearly love to do in terms of writing but rather less so in terms of actual talking.  

I'm still trying to write that story, you see.  And it's not flowing from my head like the Muses on Mt. Olympus, I can tell you that much.  No, it's more like dredging words from a brackish flood...a sullen, foul, brackish flood.  

And life...it can be so interfering!  All those trivial concerns--personal hygiene, carpool, people who keep calling me Mum and looking at me as if I'm going to give them something to eat.  

To be fair, there are only three such people, but they look at me like that all the time.

So...just a few days.  Just a wafer thin break. 

Anything longer and I'd miss you too much.  

the tale of one bad mouse

When breakfast was over and the children had gone to school, there was often a peculiar noise to be heard in the nursery.  It was a scritching, scratching sort of noise, and it could mean only one thing.

Lettie Scribbles had come to make trouble.

Lettie Scribbles was a mouse, and not a highly regarded one at that.  She spoke like a chimney sweep, leered, and bragged of her short-lived career as a pickpocket, glorifying a life of crime while conveniently omitting the fact she was no longer in possession of a tail.

It would take a fortnight to recount the scurrilous deeds of Lettie's past, including the time she nearly shut down Parliament because of her penchant for the prime minister's personal stash of cheese.

But of the vast spectrum of shenanigans attributed to Miss Scribbles, there was none from which she derived greater pleasure than this: vexing the dollies of Tollipop Place.  

Oh, the capacity for mischief within one errant mouse!

For it was she who left droppings upon their fine china, she who nibbled their stockings, she who made crude gestures when the dollies speculated as to the affections of one Sir Timothy Hastings.

Sir Timothy Hastings was, of course, a bumblebee.  He was soft and furry, the color of sunflowers on a perfect summer day.  Maybe he did have just one wing and was, for the most part, generally acknowledged to be dead.  But he was the closest thing to a suitor the dolls had ever known and they were terribly fond of him.   

"Ooh, that Lettie Scribbles," fumed Quiet Bunny, "How she makes me want to give her a pinch!"

"Rawther," said Eleanor, the frosty twin,"I'm more inclined to favor strychnine."

"Don't mind if I do," smirked Lettie, flouncing into the nursery and flashing her bloomers for all to see.

"Have some respect, Miss Scribbles," breathed Lady Beatrice, "You are in the presence of a gentleman."

"Wot? That old thing?," cried the mouse, "And him, deader than a doornail?"

"Hold your tongue, you strumpet!," burst forth Quiet Bunny, the color rising in her cheeks, "Being past one's prime is not the same thing as irretrievably dead."

If her deep and abiding affection for the bee had been a secret, the cat was now out of the bag.

"I should say not," agreed the dolls, nodding one to another as Quiet Bunny's nostrils flared at an alarming rate.

But Lettie was off to the pantry and missed this concensus against her.  What did it matter, anyway?  What did she care for the opinion of some stuffy old dolls?  She had matters of greater concern, such as the possibility of cats and the fact she would be going home to an empty nest that night, lined only with the silk from Quiet Bunny's stockings.

hello kitty duct tape

Dear reader, it doesn't surprise me in the least to have received several inquiries as to my source for Hello Kitty duct tape.  

I mean, you never know when a girl will need a cute yet indestructible purse to accompany her on an adventure.  

p.s.  I will split the six pack with you, dear Jodi...(in all seriousness, Target offers them individually as well).

xoxo

the best toy i ever gave my girls: paper

I'm not the world's biggest toy enthusiast.  I mean, there are certain toys which appeal to my fancy, but most of them tend to disappoint.  

I've never especially cared for my children to become attached to toys.  It's somehow disheartening to think a mass marketed, media driven, popular figurine could capture my daughter's imagination, franchement.

I would rather them be outside gazing at a pinecone, imagining it to be a tree in a miniature forest.  I would rather them be reading.  I would rather them be writing.  I would rather them be running.  I would rather them be dancing.  

 

I would rather them be making things.

Over the years, I've smiled a bit wanly at some of the toys they've received as gifts.  I hope that doesn't smack of elitism or ingratitude...it's just my heart has instinctively yearned for a certain natural, nostalgic ideal when it comes to playtime for my children.

 
Happily enough, I see them leaning toward the balance of my vision on their own accord (and possibly due to an occasional lack of flashier options, which I freely endorse).

Often, it seems a sheet of paper is all they need to amuse themselves for an entire afternoon. 

Oh, paper.  I have such a crush on you.  I love that you are the canvas upon which our imagination and dreams unfold.   

paper dolls

 
When I was a girl I spent hours making paper dolls. 

 
I must have had about a hundred, each one with a name and a little shoebox full of clothes.

I colored them with my coveted Prismacolors, designing their outfits, imagining their lives.

 
In those moments I was so absorbed that being interrupted from my activities was something like coming out of a trance.

 

My little world of dolls seemed so real to me it was almost as if they came alive.

 
And today, sometimes I wonder...

 
If perhaps three of them did.

the loveliest thing came from canada the other day...

 
Dear reader, you know how we never win anything?  And how that makes us all bitter and jaded?  But from time to time, someone hosts a giveaway too scrumptious to resist, so for one giddy moment we cast aside our raspy laughter and overly made up eyes to throw our names in the hat? 

Even though we never win anything?

Well, imagine how I fell off my chandelier the other day when I was informed I won something?  Oh, you had better believe I scrubbed my raccoon eyes and started speaking the Queen's English right smart!  I was all bobbing up and down, saying Yes, M'um!, No, M'um!, dropping curtsies like nobody's business.

Because I won the most exquisite pillowcase known to the history of mankind!  Trust me, Marie Antoinette would have put up such a pout for this cradle of dreams.  The Pharoahs of Egypt would have traded me a pyramid for my prize.  No doubt Willy Wonka would have given me a golden ticket.

But I was not to be bought!  I was not to be swayed!  I took my package and scurried home, running upstairs to try it on the first pillow I could find... 

 
Eh voilá!  Oh, planets!  Oh, Milky Way!

It is perfection! 

 
The workmanship and construction rival any of the great fashion houses in Europe.  And the design...well, none can compare. 

I'm speaking of the lovely Beata, of course.  I cannot recommend enough the importance of stalking her Rosehip blog and shop, just in case some heavenly delight shows up on her shelves.

 
Such as this little poppet (which she made), for example.  How is one to abide such darling-ness?  Such utter felty-wool, Liberty of London, matryoshka-ness? 

I simply want to look at her and feel happy all day long.

put your needle down, madame, and step away from the french dots

 
I'm still stitching, dear reader.  I can't help myself.  I find it so soothing, so engrossing, so satisfying.  It makes sitting through swim team feel like a cozy night in a Swiss chalet.  With a cup of hot chocolate!  And lullabies. 

And, oh, how it helps me channel a happy place on days when it seems Caroline is more sawing her cello in half than actually practising. 

Those fuzzy antlers!  They gave me such a thrill I simply had to move on to the socks.  Once they were striped and dotted I nearly swooned off my chair.  What next?  Quoi d'autre?  One false move and it would all come down like a house of cards.  I paced the room like a woman possessed.  The suspense was maddening.  The bonnet.  The bonnet!  Oh, muse!  Oh, grace!  It was all so obvious!

 
This is for my lovely sister-in-law, Madeline.  She requested it on behalf of a friend.  Right.  Just like I have a "friend" who can't organize her studio and eats far too much bread.  And is addicted to french dots. 

 
This is for a new, dear little someone. 

 
And here is a peek at a sweet lamb my mom french-dotted the living daylights out of when she was feeling poorly with cancer.  I spent many hours with her, stitching side by side, feeling scared and helpless and yet so grateful that those tiny dots seemed to have the power to distract her from her pain.

Dear reader, do you remember my invitation to make one hundred somethings?  Do you remember my promise that creativity is an elixir with the capacity to lift almost any situation?

I've taken a brief hiatus on the Hundred Dresses Project out of necessity, but hopefully I will soon return to that happy little world of wistful girls and their sometimes shocking behavior. 

It's a new year, dear reader.  I'm not sure what all is coming with this carpet bag of goodies but I, for one, plan to french dot the living daylights out of it. 

   

tollipop giveaway: kokeshi doll ornament

 

Dear reader, this truly is the sweetest thing.  Do you know what a kokeshi doll is?  When I was a little girl, my mom enrolled me in violin lessons through the Suzuki method.  It was a fairly new approach to music at the time, especially in the quaint little hamlet of my childhood, and so the Suzuki teacher was actually a young woman from Japan who lived at our house for a period of time.  Her name was Mariko. 

She spoke almost no English and, of course, my Japanese wasn't so hot, either.  I have many memories of her gentle hands correcting my posture over and over: my feet, my bow hold, how my chin rested against the instrument.  But most of all, she had to gesture to get my attention.  My eyes were always wandering around her room, which contained tiny, fascinating objects and curios and candies from Japan.

 
After Mariko returned back home, she stayed in touch with my family over the years.  Once she sent us a pair of kokeshi dolls, hands clasped, delicately painted.  I spent many moments watching them together: still, quiet, feelings held close to the heart.  

Before my mom passed away, she asked me which of her possessions I'd like to have.  I'm funny this way--there is something about me that is not really attached to things, especially if that thing is supposed to remind me of someone I love.  It's almost as if the object gets in the way of my connection to that person.  Or perhaps I don't want a reminder of her absence. 

Either way, I'm no ascetic.  And I do admit to getting excited over Martha Stewart glitter, so let's not crown me with a halo just yet. 

At any rate, I was content to let the division of her possessions take a more organic path, and I ended up with these kokeshi dolls.  Which bring me back to that moment in childhood every time I see them.

Wait, am I still talking?  This was a simple giveaway, right? 

Well, I just wanted to give you a little background information, dear reader.  So you could know of the feelings which go into making these sweet ornaments. 

 
Because we are talking kokeshi dolls and french dots here.  I'm not sure it gets any better than that.

If you would like such a quiet little doll hanging in your own home, please leave a comment at the bottom of this post.  I will draw and announce a winner on Monday.

all right, mr. demille, i'm ready for my close-up...(tollipop giveaway)

 
Dear reader, this poppet is looking for a warm, loving home.  I have not named her as yet, but every time I make a doll I think of dear Charlotte, the simple rag doll so lovingly fashioned for Laura Ingalls by her mother, which she was then obligated to let the horrid little neighbor girl abduct and decimate, only to discover the doll months later, strangled, missing an eye, lying face down in a frozen puddle. 

To this day that story gets me worked up, I'm telling you! 

 
At any rate, back to the matter at hand.  If you are interested in taking care of this doll and never allowing some pushy kid to ride roughshod over your possessions, then here is the giveaway for you.  Simply leave a comment below and I will be back on Friday to announce the winner.

 
Just look at that face.  Doesn't she seem like the only person in the world who will ever truly understand you?  Who will keep all your secrets?  Laugh at your jokes?  Read you bedtime stories?  Come to your tea parties?

I think she will.  Because in the pattern I followed to make her, there was a little-known step which outlined all of these traits and more...

.............

eta:  Dear reader, I'm sorry to be delinquent with announcing the winner of this poppet.  Things have been so busy--I keep missing my window of opportunity.  I will draw and announce a winner on Monday, so there is still time to enter this contest!  Best of luck to everyone.

i just remembered something i have to do before cleaning the house

It astounds me, my capacity to get busy with one activity in order to avoid another.  Back in the college years, my apartment was never so pristine as when it came time to study for exams. 

Basically it works like this:  when I should study, I clean.  When I should clean, I make stuff.  When I should make stuff...well, I usually do make stuff. 

Drat, I broke my chain of procrastination! 

Wait, here goes again: when I should do the laundry, I call someone.  When I should call someone, I make my bed.  When I should make my bed, I get something to eat.  When I should get something to eat...well, I pretty much always follow through with that. 

Sorry, derailed again. 

Incidentally, this chain defaults to food quite a bit, like when I should be working out, practising the piano, or picking my kids up from school.

But enough about me.  I just wanted to say my house isn't going to get cleaned this week.  At least not until Friday.  Because Thursday is that handmade holiday gift show I was telling you about--the one I do each year with a lovely bunch of creative friends.  To be truthful, I look forward to the evening as much to see them as anything else.

 
So I am trying to get a few goodies together.  And until then, everything else is going to slide just a little.  Like the lunch I packed for Sophie this morning: a sandwich and a candy cane. 

Because apparently yesterday, when I should have been grocery shopping, I was busy making stuff. 

I was probably eating something, too.