tollipop

royal wedding watching party

 
Dear reader, Caroline invited a friend to come home after school on Friday to watch the royal wedding.  It was a wildly anticipated event, one which they asked me about all week long, and I do believe it lived up to the girls' expectations and then some.  Next to Kate's dress and the balcony kiss, they were mesmerized by the parade of stylish ladies and their impossible hats. 

 
I decided they, too, must have an outlandish creation perched atop their heads.  After all, if Posh Beckham did, why shouldn't they?  They jolly well should.  So I appointed myself Royal Milliner to Wistful Girls and set about making them something pretty. 

Caroline chose pink.  Her friend favored shades of green.

As you may imagine, it was all done in British accents. 

 
Of course, any royal wedding watching party worth its smelling salts must serve refreshments, though in this case it was not, unfortunately, of the strawberries and clotted cream variety.  Rather, it was more along the lines of tiny colored marshmallows and Wonka's Everlasting Gobstoppers.

Oh dear, I'm afraid my accent just slipped several classes!

 
At one point, I do believe a game of Clue was played concurrently with the speech from the bride's brother.  And the girls rolled their eyes when I told them there was yet a single prince who was searching for the fairest maiden in all the land. 
 
After all, what does a royal milliner know of such things?  She is only good for making something lovely and slightly ridiculous to set upon one's noggin.

i made something pretty today

 
Dear reader, it all started a few weeks ago when this girl from church approached me about teaching a class on spring fashion to the ladies in our congregation. 

Spring fashion?  Moi?

Now admittedly, in my mind, I look fabulous.  I often wander across the moors with wild, windswept hair, flushed cheeks, and a heaving bodice.  I am a soulful, barefoot gypsy adorned in bangles and vibrant scarves.  I am cool and chic, sitting at a Parisian café with my ballet slippers and rumpled poet's blouse.  I am mysterious and unfathomable in vintage dresses, green sunglasses, and striped tights. 

In reality, however, there is something of a different truth to be confronted.  In reality, I am like the Catholic schoolgirl of jeans and grey t-shirts. 

So I was all, "Carrie, look at me.  I hardly think I'm qualified to tell these women the first thing about fashion."

And Carrie did look at me and missed her cue wherein she was supposed to heartily disagree.  (Bless you, Carrie, for keeping it real.)

So then she thought a moment and asked if I could teach a class on spring cleaning and organization of one's home.  And I was all, "Darling, the slim chances of fooling these women into buying me as a fashion icon sadly eclipse that of passing myself off as an expert in the art of organized living."

Once again, Carrie missed her cue.  I'm really loving this girl.

She suggested a class on yummy spring recipes and I nixed that, thinking of the three times I made crêpes for dinner last week.  We stood there, marvelling at all the things I was unfit to teach.  There were so many! 

Finally, she looked at me and said, "Well, what can you teach?"

And I had this moment of horror wherein I was forced to confront the fact perhaps I had nothing of real value to offer these women.  Perhaps my years of living with one foot in reality and the other in my own little world had rendered me not especially relevant to society at large.

But then I had an idea. 

I said, "I can show them how to make something pretty." 

And tonight I'm going to show them how to make this: a lovely spring blossom to pin to a cardigan of mesmerizing blue or perhaps fasten in their hair so they can walk across the moors, bodices heaving, cheeks flushed, yet tangled tresses of bewitching curls more or less in place. 

midnight oil

 
Dear reader, do you feel yourself careening toward some sort of invisible finish line?  Somehow the last month before school ends always plays out in this sloppy, haphazard way chez Tollipop.  I think it is triggered by Daylight Savings Time, that draconian instrument of torture and fatigue from which I suspect we never fully recover. 

Beyond that, the weekend volleyball tournaments, excursions, houseguests (love them), music lessons, recitals, end of school projects, orchestra trips, redoing a bedroom to reflect the teen vibe, odds and ends, this and that, have had the effect of piling up on me, if you know what I mean. 

Please console me with assurances I'm not the only one rocking this leaky boat.   

For the last two evenings we have been hanging out with my father-in-law and his golf buddies from Missouri, which is a worthy impingement upon the sainted schedule if ever there was one.  You don't pass up a chance to hang out with fathers-in-law.  Nor folks from the Midwest.  Because this combination makes for one of the nicest, easiest, most indulgent evenings on record.  Also, there are plenty of Canadian jokes to go around.  Plenty.

Last night we stopped by after music lessons and Caroline and Izzy brought their instruments inside for an impromptu concert.   After Caroline finished her performance, perhaps the saltiest fellow of the bunch said, "Caroline, that was pretty good for a redhead." 

To which Caroline exclaimed, "Thank you!" and smiled so wide she nearly swallowed the room.  After all, this was a combination of her two favorite compliments (music and hair) and she was genuinely thrilled.  The funniest part, of course, was watching what happens when someone's gruff attempt to tease is embraced with the innocence of a child.  I do believe he was rendered speechless for possibly the first time in his entire life. 

At any rate, we are on some sort of brutal homestretch, some grim war of attrition, some half-hearted fight to the finish.  The girls are tired and dragging.  The house is in a state of chaos.  I make headway when and where possible.  I keep a smile on my face.  I persuade my troops to rally on a daily basis. 

Beyond that, I hope my friend calls me up for a tea party soon, because a coconut muffin is starting to sound pretty good right about now.

mecca

 
Over the weekend we went to a very special place.  This is where I went to school, this is where I met my husband, this is where we started out together and on Friday we returned with our three girls, marvelling at how our lives have changed since then.

 
Sophie and Caroline attended a two day volleyball camp.  It was great fun to hang out and watch them play.   

 
And it was great fun to have Izzy all to myself and visit our favorite spots on campus.  She loves the science building, she loves the library, she loves the arts building, she loves the bookstore.  She was anxious to spot Jimmer.  I love that she loves so many things.
 
 
Some day I hope she'll find herself spending a great deal of time in this building, playing the living daylights out of her violin.  Who can say what the future will bring?  All I know is each day I watch her path unfold with no end of wonder and feeling.

 
How good it was to spend time with my brother, two of my sisters, and their families.  How we have learned to savor and enjoy these moments.  How amazing to see little cousins grow.  How sweet to be called auntie and to get so many hugs from such tiny, earnest arms. 

What a gift to watch our children play together, to see them so naturally connected, to watch the big cousins be so good to the little ones.  How we missed the cousins and their parents who couldn't be with us! 

 
We went to Easter services in the church my mum used to attend and as it happened, three of the four hymns sung that day were the same ones from her funeral.  I hope my mum was able to see us in that moment: happy, together, passing babies up and down the row, wrangling with runaway toddlers. 

It seemed to me perhaps she did. 

it's spring break and that can only mean two things: carrot cake and british accents

 
Oh, it's high times around here, dear reader.  Izzy has declared the season of carrot cake to be upon us, and she's been grating up a storm in the kitchen ever since.  Caroline, her trusty sidekick, must perform the lowly tasks Izzy deems unworthy of her attention.  Both girls appear delighted with their station in life, so I only watch and smile. 

A little known secret: the best carrot cakes are made with a British accent.

 
Yet another tip: the best carrot cakes are made with a spin around the room.
 
And let us not forget: the best carrot cakes may be served for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

If you're anything like Caroline, you have the added incentive such cake is imperative for the maintenance and upkeep of your lovely red hair.

adaptation

 
Dear reader, when I first moved to the desert thirteen years ago, I felt as if I'd touched down on a new planet.  Literally.  The heat was suffocating so that it seemed I couldn't breathe.  The air conditioning was frigid and strange.  The town was lacking in beauty and imagination and instead seemed loud, garish~a perpetual assualt to the senses.  The seasons, as I knew them, had all but disappeared into a relentless, insatiable furnace.

Everything felt different.  My entire sense of balance seemed to shift like a bad case of vertigo.  I couldn't find my footing.  I couldn't find my place.  None of this was helped by the fact I was also facing devastating personal heartbreak at the time. 

It wasn't that I dug in my heels and refused to adjust.  I think I would have embraced a connection had it manifested itself.  But a feeling of recognition, of familiarity, did not make itself readily available, and I was too lost in my own shattered world to go about rustling one up.

Things have changed with time.  I have found healing.  I have found my place.  I have learned to be ferociously grateful for what I love about this area and to dismiss the disheartening thoughts of what I wish could be different.

And I have learned to reclaim some of my old traditions, only with a little adaptation.

 
Throughout my childhood at this time of year, my mum would cut pussy willow branches from a bush at the end of our driveway and place them in a heavy, earthenware vase.  We would adorn the branches with colored eggs, a bright reminder of the season of renewal and growth.  This tradition made me happy beyond description, as did every day spent observing the evolution of seasons in my beloved Okanagan valley.  How deeply I breathed in that air which was always changing, always intoxicating, and will always be a part of me.     

Sadly, there are no pussy willows growing in Las Vegas.  And our weirdly instant Spring came and left like a thief in the night sometime around the end of February.  But these minor obstacles were not to deprive my girls of their own ancient rite, their own mystical celebration.

So I went out to the desert over the weekend and cut the branches of a hardy looking bush, one with tiny green leaves which smell of fresh rain.  And we've been having fun decorating them ever since.
 
 
Some of our ideas have not been executed quite as envisioned.  Some have, in fact, fallen quite flat.  But we are flexible.  This is a work in progress.

 
And I see beauty in it every moment of every day. 

calling all amateur sleuths

 
Dear reader, break out your magnifiying glass and powers of deduction.  It's time to dust for fingerprints. 

The other day I received a comment and then exchanged a flurry of emails with the lovely Staish, who hails from Brisbane and came across this intriguing discovery in the frame department of her local Ikea. 

A Tollipop girl?  In Ikea?? In Australia???

How did it get there?  I have no clue.  But we came up with some amusing possible explanations, none so good as Staish's speculation that perhaps the print had been "wistfully placed there by an Ikea staff member with a proselytizing case of Tollipop fandom."  Although I also liked the scenario wherein we envisioned Ikea offering me a lifetime supply of Swedish meatballs in exchange for consent to display my work. 

But I must say I do love the mystery.  I love the thought of this little Tollipop gazing wistfully upon patrons halfway around the world at one of my favorite places to shop.  Has anyone noticed her and felt mesmerized by the particular blue of her dress?  Has anyone smiled at her improbable hair?  Has anyone observed the jaunty angle of her birthday hat and the body language which clearly suggests she is waiting for a piece of cake?

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Update: The mystery has been solved, yet I still prefer to think of it as unfathomable...

Dear reader,

Last night I received an email from the lovely Simone, who came forth with information laying to rest our wild theories for once and for all.  It was just as had been suggested--she took the Tollipop print, along with several others, to Ikea for frames and accidentally left this one behind.  In spite of valiant efforts to track it down, she was unable to do so and had finally reached the point wherein she knew life must go on.

And then, behold!  Simone visits this blog and sees, to her surprise, the picture of her missing print!  On display at the very Ikea which assured her it was gone for good.  I can only image the exclamations of delight and tears of joy to be uttered and shed at the impending (I hope!) reunion.

Thank you, dear Simone, for putting our minds at ease.  Because we were cooking up some great conspiracies to explain this mystery!

But I must say, I find the whole series of events even more intriguing now that the truth has been revealed. 

Consider this: what are the odds a Tollipop print would be misplaced by someone living upon the vast Australian continent, in the hinterland of Ikea, which someone else then discovered and arbitrarily put on display, only to be noticed by another Tollipop reader who stopped to take a picture and whiz it via the latest technology back to me, living halfway across the world in the barren stretch of Las Vegas??

You don't have to live in this town to know the odds are enormous!  Simply colossal!  Immense beyond my ability to comprehend.

So that, in and of itself, makes me happy. 

Especially considering the odds of Ikea offering me a lifetime supply of Swedish meatballs pretty much just got swept off the table. 

boxes for japan

 
Dear reader, this is a quilt my sister made in 48 hours (from start to finish!) as part of an ongoing project to send relief to the children living in the earthquake/tsunami devastated areas of Japan.  As I admire her beautiful work, I am touched to think of my busy sister and her great talent but more than that, the love in her heart which fueled such an amazing effort. 

 
The project is described in detail on The Sleepy Time Gal's blog.  The pictures on this particular post are deeply touching, and I am inspired to gather my girls together and find a way we can participate, as well.   

slowing down

 
Dear reader, is it just me or does life seem a bit maxed out these days?  I find myself feeling easily spent without having a lot to show for it.  The girls seem very low energy as well.  For one thing, we've had some sort of plague lingering in our home over the past several months--a remnant, no doubt, from the Middle Ages.  I haven't bothered to mention it until now because even I'm too bored to listen to myself talk about our health.  So dreary.

My brother is still here and between everything else on my schedule, it seems I am finding precious little time to paint a pretty picture, share an amusing story, or to enjoy the tea party at Tollipop in general.  My posting has already been rather scarce and distracted, leaving me to wonder which is better--sign off completely until I can have my thoughts to myself, or straggle in here from time to time like some dismal teen making a shoddy attempt at her homework?

In other news, I do believe my six week hiatus from running is over and I'm planning to rejoin the death squad for a trail run tomorrow morning.  I hope the group doesn't turn on me like a pack of wolves noticing one amongst them has a gimpy leg.  If that happens, I'll know how to handle myself.  Don't forget I grew up running with the wolves, dear reader. 

And Canadian wolves are tougher than American wolves any day of the week.

be happy

 
Dear reader, last night I was emptying the dishwasher and took the blender out, setting it on a paper bag for a moment as it was still slightly wet. 

Regard in wonder, as I did, at the imprint it left behind!

 
Part of me wanted to contact the local news station and tell them I had witnessed a miracle.  But that seemed so cliché.  So I called my girls together and showed them instead, enjoying their exclamations of delight. 

And I wanted to show you, dear reader.  Isn't it the simplest expression of happiness you've ever seen?  Doesn't it make you want to be happy, too?

I hope you are happy.  I hope something happens this weekend which brings you simple delight, a moment of wonder, an inadvertent smile.  I hope something happens which is utterly lovely, just for you.

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p.s. There is still time to enter the giveaway below...my darling printer has been putting on quite the show of poor manners lately, so I've taken it to the repair shop for a proper lesson in etiquette.  I'm going to keep the giveaway open until then.