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Christmas came down...mostly.
Izzy slays the fiddle (see what I mean about mostly?).
"I love my dog. My dog loves me. He sleeps in my bed. He loves to eat...cheese." (The makings of a fine young novelist...thanks, public education.)
Me and laundry--a rare match, indeed. Of all the things I love to create, order seems to struggle for its place in my universe. Don't believe me? I give you Exhibit A: the kitchen.
Edwin Fink spent the better part of his days looking out the nursery window. What else was he to do? Nanny Ramsbottom always said the air was too sour, too damp, too much one way or the other, and that he would catch his death out-of-doors! And when Nanny Ramsbottom spoke it may as well have been scripture, for her word was the first and last in little Edwin's world.
And so he stood, pressed against the cool pane with a lolly in his mouth, looking down upon the comings and goings of Fiddleshire Downs. Here was old Mr. Barnswallow, with his precious pedigree (didn't his grandfather fight for good King George?!) and leering manner, there was that mysterious so-called Count Montgomery and his drooling mastiff, and next (Edwin straightened up and paid strict attention) came along that spirited firecracker, Zipper Gilly.
Edwin was in awe of Zipper Gilly. She was like some mythical figure incarnate with her mismatched socks, her reckless braids, and the unlit cigar that dangled from her lips. Why, he had seen Zipper Gilly come upon a gang of boys bullying a stray kitten and give that brute Percival Bristow such a slug that Percy's mother had to cancel his flute lessons until Michaelmas!
Today Zipper appeared to be in no such hurry. She leaned against the lamp post directly beneath Edwin's window and extracted a box of matches from her pocket. Edwin leaned forward in spite of himself, his breath making a foggy circle on the glass which obscured the girl from his view. Frantically, he rubbed the spot away with his handkerchief, the one Nanny had starched and ironed and scared the living daylights out of him for its wellbeing.
Zipper struck the match. A yellow flame burst like a beacon upon the bleak and gloomy afternoon, and Edwin's eyes grew wide until they seemed to occupy half his head. The girl did not appear especially concerned with the fire. She let it burn down to her fingertips, then dropped the match on the ground and covered it with her shoe. Edwin's nerves were shot. He felt as though his knees might crumple at any moment.
Just then, Zipper Gilly looked directly up at the place where Edwin was standing.
Here the boy might truly have fainted dead away had he not already been clutching the drapes for support. As it was, a small tear occurred along the curtain lining and somewhere in Edwin's faltering mind he registered the fact that there would be hell to pay for it with Nanny Ramsbottom.
Zipper stared at Edwin, squinting as if he were some relic on display for which she could not determine a reasonable use. Was it for this or some other purpose that she next marched up to his front door and leaned heavily upon the bell?
Like all true heroines, nothing could prevent Zipper from bounding up the staircase and announcing herself at the entrance to the nursery, not even the blusterings of Nanny Ramsbottom nor her formidable attempts to block the way.
"Eddie," said Zipper, shutting the door and locking it quickly with a long, iron key (where had she gotten that?!), "Get your boots on, kid. We're going for a little walk, and I don't mean the park."
Edwin's mouth fell open and lolly juice dribbled onto his chin.
"M-m-my name's Edwin," he stammered, staring at the girl.
"Not anymore it's not. Now hurry up. I don't know how much longer the door will hold up against that old battering ram."
Edwin started to giggle hysterically. Ramsbottom. Battering ram. It was the funniest thing he had heard in his entire life. Zipper regarded him with an arched brow, then with a sigh took the handkerchief from his pocket and used it to wipe the lolly juice off his chin. Edwin looked at the red stain on the crisp linen and laughed with such abandon that he developed a case of the hiccups.
"Well," he gasped, wiping his eyes, "Now that you mention it, I suppose there's no point in exchanging pleasantries at the moment, Miss Gilly. Just let me fetch my overcoat and we shall be on our way!"
With that the two children opened the nursery window and lowered themselves to the ground using a length of escape rope Zipper kept on hand for just such an occasion.
And that was the day hope dawned brightly for little Eddie Fink and a new, beautiful friendship came into bloom.
Amy! To be specific, Amy from Loozyanna...congratulations, my dear! You are the winner of the first Tollipop giveaway of 2009! Three cheers and a ticker tape parade! I hope you will enjoy Tess and Belinda--I'm sure they'll make lovely southern belles! Let's get in touch, dear Amy, to discuss the finer points of mailing addresses and the like!
To everyone else, I must thank you for playing along and for leaving such thoughtful and amusing comments! Oh, how these giveaways have a last minute fizzle and how I simply dread watching the rest of you walk away empty-handed! To soften the disappointment of not winning, please jump into my pink, hollowed-sweet boat and sail down the chocolate river with me to a brand new room in my factory, one which no human has laid eyes upon before this moment!
Dear reader, I give you the Tollipop boy...!
Not just one, but two.
And to sweeten the deal, we simply must add a girl!
Since the advent of my Etsy shop, people have been asking why I don't offer drawings of little boys for sale. One lovely reader even went so far as to suggest perhaps I didn't like little boys. Stuff and nonsense! Nothing could be further from the truth! Why, I simply adore those little rapscallions and their grubby fingers! They positively melt my heart!
The truth behind the lack of xy chromosome artwork was simply...I couldn't draw boys. I tried. I did. But every time I attempted to draw a boy, the results looked suspiciously like a girl. So I tabled the issue for a while and tried not to lose any more sleep over it...until a dear friend approached me with the news that she was expecting triplets. Two of which would be boys!
Needless to say, I felt some degree of pressure to make a new attempt at boy-drawing. And as it happens, the Oompa Loompas and I finally stumbled upon a working recipe, which is as follows: big ears, messier hair, beadier eyes, and stripes, stripes, stripes! The result is a little rascal who appears ready to shoot you in the back with a spitball and then charm you with his endearing smile when you turn around to scold.
Imagine having travelled the world, pursued a brilliant career, and now suddenly finding yourself in a staring contest with this crew. Oh, how I wish our friends all the best in this brave, new adventure!
Belinda sank into the parlor loveseat with a happy squeal. Just moments ago, that pompous Mortimer Witherspoon had come courting and announced himself with the biggest box of chocolates known to mankind. When Belinda lifted the lid to peep at its contents, she'd inhaled sharply. The candies were exquisite! Each bon bon nestled in a pink paper cup with gold trim and was adorned with a tableau etched into its sides. This one was the balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet. This one was a tribute to the Taj Mahal. But nothing compared to the little chocolate birdcage containing a teensy sugar bird which cocked its head at Belinda and winked!
Belinda could hardly bring herself to close the box and face the harsh dose of reality presented in the form of Mortimer Witherspoon, that insufferable twit. He eyed her possessively, his thin lips pressed together like slices of luncheon meat, his ruddy cheeks bulging into jowels. And these were his finer features!
Belinda shuddered in spite of herself. What was she thinking, allowing this groping toad to take such liberties, to presume himself in such a revolting manner?! She closed her eyes and mentally recited the 23rd psalm as Witherspoon took her hand and pressed it to those coldcuts for lips.
"You may go now," said Belinda, turning to the window, unable to face her suitor.
The answer was obvious: the chocolates were to blame! They were enchanting, captivating, spellbinding! What else could account for her shocking lack of judgement and common sense?! Such heavenly morsels were worth almost any compromise, Belinda told herself wildly, now that Witherspoon had gone (and the funny odor with him) and she was free to gaze upon the pint-size chocolate gazebo with its pond of microscopic minnows, the tiny marzipan string quartet playing Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, the miniscule yet exact chocolate rendering of the Sistine Chapel.
Belinda caught sight of herself in the parlor mirror. She was flushed, breathing heavily, and a curl had escaped from her pretty blue ribbon. If there was ever such a thing as a crossroads in life, she was facing one now! A rich and beguiling smell wafted to her from the chocolate box, and Belinda felt herself salivate ever so slightly. No, no--this would not do! With trembling fingers and a faltering resolve, Belinda replaced the lid and rushed from the room lest she should change her mind and be lost forever to the strange yet undeniable powers of that twit Mortimer Witherspoon and his mesmerizing box of chocolates!
*******
Dear reader, I just realized that much of the fun of this Hundred Dresses project is the opportunity to send my little Tollipops out into the wide, wide world. With that in mind I'm announcing another giveaway, the first of 2009, the prize being copies of my two most recent girls, Tess and Belinda.
In order to enter this contest, you must simply leave a comment below. For those of you who enjoy a challenge, I always delight in hearing your ideas on what happens next to our dear heroine. But if you're in a rush and are shocked by how much time you've already spent reading this silly story, please merely keep it short and sweet!
In addition (and as per usual), if the winner is sent here via someone else, then that generous soul will be rewarded in kind.
I will leave the contest open until Monday afternoon of next week, then draw and announce the winner at that time. I'm sure Caroline will be of great assistance in the matter.
Until then, thank you so much for visiting Tollipop and playing along! I hope your week is lovely, your weekend even more so, and that a tempting morsel of chocolate (minus the twit) factors into your life between now and then.
I'm not sure how especially keen my husband will be to know his knitting skills have been declassified here on Tollipop. I mean, he's a confident guy and all, but he generally prefers to remain anonymous on this blog. When I first created this little space, it was with the vague understanding that he would be granted some sort of diplomatic immunity...but this is a new year and everything's back up for grabs.
At any rate, what was he thinking, making something so sweet and not envisioning the likelihood that it would attract a little attention?! I say he pretty much brought this on himself.
Dear Sweden, we really must have a chat about your penchant for being totally awesome. These pepparkakors should not be unleashed upon mere mortals like myself.
In other news, I know many of you are facing today with a certain degree of reluctance. Back to school and back to that crazy pace of life which I am constantly panning through, like an old, grizzled gold miner, to keep the nuggets and discard the rest.
I've had a wonderful time with my little tribe these past few weeks. There's been a whole lot of nothing going on and I've enjoyed every minute of it.
Failed chocolate making attempt #1. Apparently I did not pay close enough attention all those times my mom was in charge. But the girls were thrilled nonetheless and I am nowhere near ready to concede defeat!
The manliness of knitting.
Our equivalent of a walk along the moors.
Rosy cheeks.
It always ends so predictably!
Bedtime stories. Never complete without the plea to read more.
These simple, cozy moments are what make me happiest and most aware of the goodness of life. My hope for the new year is that many more such moments come your way and mine...
Tess surveyed the creamy sheet of paper before her and sighed. She couldn't help herself. Fresh paper always made her happy! Next, she extracted a quill from a little pigeonhole in her desk, a smooth, rolling plume that finished all the lines and curves of her letters just so. Wasn't she off to a lovely start?!
New Year's Resolutions, she wrote at the top of the page, in her most precise and measured script. Ten minutes crept by, the grandfather clock counting each second with a dry and frugal click. Tess frowned. Of all the days to encounter writer's block--this was most inconvenient!
Finally she scribbled a few hasty phrases, folded the page in half and then once over again, and tucked the note into her heaving bodice. She desperately needed a breath of fresh air.
As she walked along the lane, Tess could not help but notice that horrid Minnie McAllister traipsing in her direction, wearing her hemline just below the ankle. Tess felt ill. Merciful heavens, was she to be outdone by that peevish strumpet yet again?! Why, only a week ago last Sunday fashionable hems were universally acknowledged to be at the knee! How could haute couture morph so quickly, with such little warning?
The next few moments required all the gumption in the universe, and to Tess's credit she summoned it in spades, holding her head high and smiling in such a manner as to mask her badly rattled nerves. The girls nodded at one another (Minnie with her awful, smug expression!), though no pleasantries were exchanged. How could there be?! Minnie made no secret of the fact she was vying for the attentions of one Xavier Willingham III, heir to the Duke of Willingham and rapscallion extraordinaire, in spite of the fact Tess had been first to embroider his initials onto a crushed velvet ribbon she used to adorn her hair!
No sooner had they passed one another than Tess fumbled for the note in her bodice. Choking back a sob, she regarded the second item on her list. Focus on inner beauty, it said, and the rest will take care of itself. Oh, how these words mocked her now! How jaded and world weary she felt as she thought of the carefree girl who had penned this sentiment only moments ago!
Just as Tess wildly wished for a fountain of ink to blot out the aforementioned resolution, a breeze lifted the note from her fingers and sent it fluttering into the street. Dear me--if this wasn't a fine kettle of fish!
The street was full of mud, horsewhips, and highwaymen--no place for a lady, to be sure! Tess watched in agony as the little white scrap tumbled this way and that, like a hapless call to surrender, until it came to rest squarely in a puddle across the way. Face up. Her hopes for salvation fairly plunged.
To make matters worse, who should come thundering by on his chesnut steed but none other than Xavier Willingham III! Tess nearly swooned against the lamp post, but then had the very good presence of mind to conceal herself behind it. Drawing his mount to a sudden halt, Willingham stooped over and with a gloved hand retrieved the note from its unfortunate circumstances. He glanced over the page, feigning disinterest of the most studied variety, though even he could not conceal the effect of its contents!
Willingham's face flushed with color. He glanced around quickly, hopefully, but upon noting the street to be empty (or did he not spy a whisp of hem, at knee length, fluttering behind the lamp post?!), he folded the mysterious list of resolutions, pressed it against his lips, and tucked it into the waistcoat pocket right above his rapidly beating heart.