tollipop

you know how crazy it was when england's fleet defeated the spanish armada? well, this is even crazier.

Yesterday afternoon I checked my email and found several messages from people mentioning they had found my site through designmom.  I was all, "What the??"  And then, being Canadian, I added, "Qu'est-ce que c'est??"  So I logged onto her site and nearly fell off my chair.  This is too crazy!  This is just plain cuckoo.  This is like taking a walk along the moors and somebody comes thundering up behind you on horseback.  You turn around and it's Mr. Darcy.  "Would you do me the honor," he says, reining in his spirited steed, "Of allowing me to escort you to prom this Saturday next?"  You blush demurely and look down at your hands, but before you can murmur, "My dear Fitzwilliam...",  Mr. Heathcliff comes charging out of nowhere and exclaims, "By my word, Darcy, the pleasure of this girl's company is to be mine or I'll know the reason why!"  And you stand there with your eyeballs popping out, watching two of literature's hottest tickets vie for your affections.  Finally you come to your senses and whip out your dance card.  "Fellows," you say, "this story can have a happy ending," but they still go to fisticuffs over who gets the minuets and who is to have the allemandes.  

Anyway, that should give you some idea of how it felt to be on designmom.  Thank you, Gabrielle, and if you ever need a date for prom, I know two guys who can passepied like nobody's business. 

For Friday archives this week, I am sharing something a tad untraditional.  This is a picture of me and Izzy practising together last summer (incidentally, I have an amazing spider story to go with this photo--you will not stop twitching for weeks).  I would say the musical journey I am taking with my children, and by "journey" I mean "forced march", is by far the greatest occupier of my creative energy these days.  On summer evenings, Izzy and I like to step outside and serenade the neighborhood.  It feels a bit magical, cloaked in darkness, to send the sad and lovely tones of the violin into the night. 

Thank you so much to everyone who has visited my blog lately.  I hope you have a beautiful, harmonious weekend.

what makes you happy?

When Sophie gets home from school she is usually to be found on the wall behind our apricot tree, reading a book.  Today she opted for bubbles.  I like seeing her out there...I remember the secret thrill of being up in a tree, hidden from the rest of the world.  As you can see, she has no such privacy, but I hope the effect is pretty much the same in her mind.  I often come across this conflict, having grown up in such a luscious, remote corner of the world, of wishing my kids had more wilderness, more nature, more places to explore.  I will spare you the workings of my mind on this issue, since I haven't come to a resolution that truly sits with me.  I do know Sophie is happy to be up there and that, in and of itself, makes me happy as well.

It's been a busy week--school is winding down and that pokes all sorts of holes in my schedule--recitals, registrations, graduations.  Also, little Izzy has been under the weather, but I think today she is on the mend.  I haven't been drawing much lately, and not for lack of desire, so hopefully I will find some free time soon.  I must also admit, since the advent of Clarice, I am in the mood to create more dolls.  There is something so incredibly satisfying about making a doll.      

stop the presses!

Something happened to me today that was like the equivalent of going for a stroll past Buckingham Palace and feeling a tap on your shoulder.  You turn around and the Queen's yeoman is towering over you with his big black hat and he says, "Begging your pardon, Miss, but Her Majesty requests your presence for a spot o' tea."  Only in this case, I was making a quick visit to the various blogs I admire, and when I came to decor8, my very own drawings were standing there, staring me right in the face!  I swooned and fell off my chair, and Caroline had to bring the smelling salts before I came to my senses. 

So, I don't even know what to tell you.  The "amazing factor" on this just shot through the roof and is orbiting the universe as we speak.  Did you ever attend a high school dance and simply pine away hoping your mad crush would notice you from across the room...and then suddenly he does?  And you cannot believe he is actually looking at you, so you turn around but there's no one behind you.  So you turn back again and he's still looking, and you mouth the word, "Me??", and he nods and mouths back, "Yes, you."   By now you have lost all awareness of the room around you, of even the planet Earth, as he strides purposefully in your direction, batting balloons and streamers out of the way so he can whisper into your ear that he likes you a whole whopping ten out of ten.  Well...this is even better than that.  Thank you, Holly! 

You know when it feels like Friday, but it's only Wednesday? Yeah, like that.

So how's your week going?  There's this blog called Miles Away In France, and it's written by a British woman who apparently decided the queen could keep her fox hunts and her Earl Grey tea, and she packed up her family and headed for the land of pain au chocolat.  And you thought fairy tales were just for kids.  That phrase--miles away in France--was there ever a more beautiful combination of words?  Sometimes I repeat it like a mantra.  It soothes me.  Its dulcet tones waft over me like the perfect breeze.  It lowers my blood pressure to know that even if I'm not miles away in France, at least this woman is.  To her I say: well done!  I am utterly in awe of your story.  One of these days, when a cold wind is blowing in from the east, look out your window and you will see a woman with three little girls walking by, all wearing red cloaks.  And within a week of that sighting, there will be a new chocolaterie in your village.  And then a barge of gypsies will float into town, and my husband will be the guy with scruffy facial hair who knows how to fix doors and play the guitar.  Miles away in France.  Miles away in France.

At any rate, I brought all that up because it's only Wednesday and I am literally steamrolled.  Last night Caroline had her cello recital and afterward she said, "Mom, I didn't think I would be great, but then I was."  That kid.  She kills me, she really does.  She played this marathon of a piece and by the time she hit mile 22 I could tell she just wanted to throw in the towel, but she kept sawing away at her cello like a champ.  You should see her at her lessons.  Her teacher will suggest playing at a certain place in the music and Caroline will scrutinize it for a moment, then use her bow to point out a different measure and say, "How about if we begin here?"  She's five years old.  And I'm not kidding--all of this?  She gets from her dad.

my new favorite earrings...

Just a few pictures to display some of the goodies I'm making for Thursday's little show (and to compensate for not treating you to any scorpion photos in the last post...I know that was a letdown).  I gravitate toward simple looks, partly because I'm too rushed to coordinate anything stupendous in the morning, and also because I don't think I can pull off anything more exotic.

Also, Roger did a brilliant job of framing some tollipop prints for the girls' rooms over the weekend.  My sister once said she hoped I had "peppered" their walls with my artwork.  Not wanting to disappoint her, I have finally started peppering.  The frames have a nice, clean look, but I'm not terribly in love with them.  I can't say I've looked far and wide for the frame of my dreams, so perhaps it is out there, but frames in general seem a bit lacking in imagination.

 

Have a lovely day! 

hey scorpions--I am so over you.

In the ensuing days since I last posted about an unwanted guest, we have encountered two more scorpions on the premises.  I keep reminding my husband this wouldn't happen if we lived somewhere cold enough to freeze and shatter your eyeballs, like 33,274,181 saavy beings do.  (Sorry if my statistics are less than the actual numbers on the site...it's because people are moving there as we speak.)

I will now proceed to tell you how the sightings went down, at least until my husband gets to work this morning, checks my blog, and calls me to negotiate a revision (you can get a lot of good stuff that way). 

On Saturday afternoon Roger was outside talking on the phone when he felt something crawl across his foot. He looked down and saw a scorpion sunbathing on his toe.  Not wanting to interrupt the conversation, he stamped his foot and knocked the scorpion onto the ground, grabbed the bull whip he always keeps handy, and let that pesky upstart know there was room for only one tough guy in town.  This, of course, is my husband's version of events and who am I to cross-examine his testimony?  All I'm saying is I was also home at the time and heard a blood-curdling shriek, so I bustled into the conservatory to check on my girls and observed them doing fancywork, playing the pianoforte, and taking turns about the room.  That's funny, I mused, as they clamored to know if there had been a letter from Mr. Darcy, perhaps it was only the wind.

The second sighting occurred yesterday morning, as Caroline and her neighbor friend were playing in her bedroom.  I was in the studio having a rendez-vous with a bat-sized Toblerone when my daughter suddenly began screaming about a bug.  It takes a lot to impress me when it comes to bugs--where I grew up, you can hire them as bodyguards.  And knowing Caroline as I do, the fuss was probably over a dust mite.   But then her little friend yelled, "It's not a bug, it's a scorpion!"  I gazed longingly at my chocolate bar and said, "Un de ces jours, mon cher, il n'y aurait personne entre nous!", and then I had to translate it into English because that's how we Canadians roll. 

I bolted down the hallway and sure enough, they had cornered a scorpion in Caroline's treasure drawer, and by "treasure" I mean candy wrappers, hair elastics, and dehydrated felt pens.  But seriously--just because I disparage the drawer does not mean scorpions are allowed to go there.  Since Roger was at home, I made him deal with the situation.  By this point our three girls and their friends were crowding around, trying to catch a glimpse of the action, so it was difficult to tell exactly who was doing all the screaming, but for the right price, R, I'll tell them it wasn't you. 

clarice

On Friday morning there was a knock at the door and I opened it to discover this bookish young lady on our step.  How did I know she was bookish?  Because she was reading. 

"How do you do," she said, looking up from her copy of Anna Karenina and offering me a smartly gloved hand, "my name is Clarice."  I stepped back in surprise and she marched into my house carrying a small slip of paper and a valise.  "I've come to answer your advertisement," she announced, waving the paper beneath my nose.  "A-a-a-dvertisement?" I spluttered.  Clarice looked at me evenly and cleared her throat.  "Wanted:" she read from the piece of paper (which was in fact a newspaper clipping), "Someone who never tires of telling stories and who will read to us well past our bedtime.  Rosy cheeks and no warts."  There was a titter and a scuffle and I looked up to see my three children elbowing each other and peering down at us through the bannisters. 

"This is an outrage," I exclaimed, "I don't have any warts!"  "Yes, but you are rather pale and sallow," Clarice mused quietly, though loud enough for me to hear.  "Hey lady, have you looked in the mirror lately?" I asked, "You're no blushing bride yourself!"  "Come, come, now," said Clarice, "This needn't go to fisticuffs.  It's no one's fault you cannot keep up with your children's voracious appetite for stories and the family shouldn't fall into rack and ruin because of it."

"Quite right!  Quite right!", I cried, wringing my hands and slipping into a British accent, "I could read them the entire King James version of the Bible and the little beggars would still be asking for more!  Oh, what is to become of us?!"

"There, you see?" said Clarice, rising from the chesterfield and giving her cheeks a brisk pinch,"I am quite sure we will be practically perfect for one another in each and every way."

Friday archives

I have always had a thing for matreshka dolls.  A snug little set of dolls nesting one inside the other?  Goes right to the heart of my inwardness.  Anyway, I made this rosy cheeked lass about a year ago...I'm not sure that qualifies as a bona fide archive, but there you have it.

There is a long weekend ahead of us...in typical fashion, I haven't given it much thought.  I don't have a particular urge to get out of town; life has been so busy lately that I would rather stay here and have fun with Roger and the girls.  Maybe we will get around to making that jam I was talking about.

Thanks for visiting this little blog.  I hope you have a lovely weekend.

the bake-off

There should be a really good story to go with this picture, right?  I mean, two rabbits trying to stare each other down at the county fair bake-off...now that is just rich.  I wonder if it went to fisticuffs?  Rabbits can scuffle like nobody's business.  And the girl.  Why is she looking so pensive?  Did those bossy does muscle her out of the competition?  Did she take a bribe? Or is she wishing her loaf of bread could feed the entire world?  Lighten up, honey, and get your head in the game.  It's a bake-off.  It's go time.  There's only one blue ribbon up for grabs and you're in it with a couple of cutthroat fur balls who wouldn't think twice before slipping you some rancid flour. 

Okay, when I start writing like this, and by "this" I mean "weirder than usual," it's a sign that my sleep deprivation is reaching critical mass (I hope that means what I think it does) and perhaps I should step away from the computer.  Those rabbits are really terribly sweet, I promise.  They wouldn't dream of undercutting the competition.

It has been a long day, beginning with an early run this morning wherein I came across a fellow wearing a snazzy pair of sneakers and matching track suit, walking briskly in my direction.  As he stepped aside to let me pass, he took the world's longest drag on a cigarette.  And for one moment I wished I was still teaching freshman English so I could say, “And this, class, is what we call situational irony.”

On the way home, I encountered a couple who should be awarded an honorary degree for choosing their battles wisely (and that, class, would be sarcasm).  She was sitting in a truck, halfway down the driveway, screaming at her husband to close the garage door after her.  He was standing by the automatic door button in the garage, bellowing at her to close it with the button in the truck.  What a pair of beautiful minds.  They raged back and forth as I scurried by, wishing I could sap their energy and use it to power something useful, like the robot maid I'm trying to invent.

 

I am trying to get ready for a little hand-crafted goodies show next week--something I've been doing with my friends for the past few years.  But school is winding down for the girls and that seems to create so much extra bustle, and Sophie is preparing for the piano exam to end all piano exams, and tonight Isabella had her lesson with the world's best violin teacher, and during the day Caroline keeps me in such good company (would you like to play the animal game?).  So...I'm just a bit tired, that's all I'm saying.

 

How was your day?

 

p.s. Sorry that the red rabbit's ear is missing...it was not a casualty of the grudge match between her and the little blue bunny.  Simply a formatting dilemma with Typepad and proof that I am not super saavy when it comes to the computer.  But I think I can promise, if you visit her on Etsy, that she will be in mint condition. 

you know how your metabolism starts to slow down after the age of 35? well, this stuff really drop kicks it in the face.

 

  

Please allow me to introduce you to my latest facial:  Trader Joe's Imported English Authentic Lemon Curd.  The word authentic is apparently crucial because there are all kinds of imposter curds out there masquerading as the real thing.  It has put the queen in a right tizzy and she's got her corgis nosing around the docks as we speak, nipping at the heels of anyone who smells like this. 

  

 

At any rate, it's no joke, this metabolism thing.  I was at Caroline's cello lesson the other day and made the mistake of picking up her teacher's Good Housekeeping magazine which fell open to an article entitled:  How your metabolism grinds to a halt in your mid-thirties, so sorry if that happens to be you, because now you have nothing left to live for.

   

 

The article also said if you only do one form of exercise, like running for example, then you're more doomed than ever because your body will get bored with the activity and be all, "Sorry, pal, but I'm not burning any more calories until you get a life."  As it happens, the only form of exercise I do is running.  So basically, this article gave me every reason to hope for the future.  Hey, Good Housekeeping, I'd like to take a bat-sized Toblerone and whap you over the head. 

  

 

Speaking of running, a few years ago my friend began training for a marathon.  I was so intrigued!  So inspired!  So close to joining her on this quest.  Then I found out about the training regimen.  Do you like precision handiwork?  A military lifestyle?  Folding Martha Stewart's t-shirts?   If so, then training for a marathon is for you.  On a predetermined day you hook yourself up to a machine with tons of wires and suction cups sticking to your body, and you begin running while scientists in lab coats scream at you in a foreign language.  From the results of this test you average your speed and determine how fast you need to run in order to reach your marathon goal. After that, every time you lose focus and start slowing down, Lance Armstrong comes out of nowhere and pings you with yellow wristbands.  

 

 

Five minutes into her explanation of the training, I was sitting in a corner and humming loudly to myself.  Keeping track of how far I run and how long it takes me to do it?  Not my cup of tea.  Concealing bottles of water in the desert at night and hoping I can recognize which cactus is my hiding spot when I stagger by at an unearthly hour the following morning?  Doesn't tickle my fancy.  Oh, and another thing I don't want to do?  Run 26 miles.  

 

 

I'm the kind of runner who runs in order not to think.  My best runs are when my brain disengages from my body and I forget about the physical world altogether.  My worst runs are when I cannot ignore the fact, every step of the way, that I'm running.