Wedding Belles.

The wedding invitation said four o'clock.

So when we made it back to the room, the plan (and right there was where I went so very very wrong) was to have Josephine nap while we got ready.

You can stop holding your sides now.

Of course she didn’t nap. And so we three commenced bouncing off each other like pinballs.

Despite all that room to shave, shower and shine, I was overcome by my own foibles. It was so hot, and I brought a few outfit variations just in case. The first combo, silk blouse and matching skirt was out, because after it went on, the well-timed remark "That's a lot of dots." meant that no amount of self-confidence, if I even had any at that point, and no amount of bravura could compensate for the insinuation that I looked like a staticky TV screen. I don't have to tell you that Josephine, aside from a handful of wordlike sounds, is non-verbal and so the wrong person made that comment at the wrong time. The black pleated skirt with the silk blouse didn't work. Once the blouse was on, I remembered I couldn't breastfeed in it if I needed to. So the black pleated skirt with the black cowl neck top was the next option - except that did I mention it was hot? And with all of the pastel potential for the day, in all black I'd look like a turd in a punchbowl. By the time I realized that nobody would be looking at me and I stopped caring and just wanted to be dressed, the larger problem was that my nail polish (a pretty hot pink) wasn't drying and so I was experiencing a unique and probably not fashionable stucco finish.

So the black cowl top with the dotty silk skirt -- and flats. Because with the smudgy toenails and how my feet were so swollen I couldn't get the strappy sandals on, there really wasn't a choice. Perhaps if I'd had a half hour do have a do-over and then lubricated them with my tears of frustration when I found the bangs I've been growing out were NOT behaving and that my hair was looking decidedly wiggy, maybe I would have felt a little kicky. And amidst all this bustling and fussing, Steve starts questioning the choice of his khakis. The ones we'd spent over an hour running around town for on Friday morning, and that he paid the big bucks for at the Gap for, and that were only marginally a little bigger than he'd like, and which would be fine after a wash. Khakis that he and twenty other men would be wearing at the wedding (although he had the cool black Guyabera, Retro shades and Hush Puppies to accessorize them with). To hear a man dither between two nearly identical pairs of pants with the differenc being under an inch in length and the slightest overall looseness - when I was agonizing over pasty legs and swarthy forearms, wet hair, a giant neck zit, clumpy mascara, lumpy nail polish, flabby Bingo lady upper arms, constrictive undergarments and wrinkly overgarments and I really could go on...but really, it was the tired whining of the un-napped one that was pushing me over the edge. I can take anything, but that noise, that horrible whimpering suffering whinging noise when I was having a hard enough time not whining myself - that was the ball peen hammer on my last nerve.

Waterworks. Because the weekend would have been fine if not for having to go to the wedding! Life with a toddler is great if you never have to go anywhere or do anything, right?

And some days, it's really hard to feel caught in age between the hot teenage nieces and the mature aunties and their friends. Do those blossoming young women have to look so fresh and healthy and stunning? Do I have to look in the mirror and see someone who isn't what she was and who isn't yet what she's going to be? The invite was not addressed to tired frumpy mommy, but she crashed the party anyway.



Pictures, pithy comments and snarky tales next time.

Can't NOT Call it Boobcaygeon.

Look! It's me at the cute Bed and Breakfast, and it was JUST like it looks on the website!



Well, we survived the weekend.

Despite the fact that the hothothothot weather conspired to make us cranky and irritable (Us? Okay, mainly me.), we managed to have a few good laughs - although to put it nicely, really, it was at best to be endured and at worst I cried twice and Josephine only freaked a few hundred times. Blah blah blah, we left late, dropped Beauty at Steve's parents' house in Scarberia, got sick of the slow-moving 401 and took the scenic route in the end. A stop at Haugen's was well timed and necessary, and Josephine used her new most favourite word of all of the words ever "a-a-jus" to order from the waitress, who was utterly charmed. She doesn't even like apple juice all that much - but she likes to say it, oh, seventy or eighty times in a day. I mean in a row.

The room was WONDERFUL. As pictured. Steve learned what a bolster pillow is, and now I can finally get one without being ridiculed because he now knows how useful they can be. There were more throw pillows on the bed than I've ever owned in my life. The chenille bedspread was exactly the kind for napping on in order to wake up with a groovy pattern on your cheek. There was this leather chair that I would have loved to put on roller skates and tow home behind the car. The view, the privacy, the charm - it was all to be adored.

The bathroom, which was not pictured on the website, was on its own worth the price of admission. Immaculate. No black dog hairs on the floor, as big as any bedroom in my house, and charming as all get out too. Aside from a soaker tub and separate shower - and the thoughtfully provided crappy reading material,


(In Style! (Who cares if they were from January. Fashion Faux Pas are enjoyable FOREVER! Plus you know how the stories end - Brad and Jen were only on the rocks back then!) Collectibles magazines! Local rags!)

there was this handy feature:



I'm looking to have one installed. Imagine! You're out of bumtwad, and you can just open the flap, peer out and say, "Hon, can you pass in the TP?". No more shouting your request two or three times, or hurried penguin walk to the linen closet, no more using your sock in a pinch (Really gross Mar. Ed.) (Again with this feature? Editing myself? What's gross? Ed.) (In a PINCH. Ed.) (Stop being a nine year old. I wasn't even thinking of toilet humour. Ed.), and it takes answering the "What are you DOING in there?" response to a whole new level when the asker can use the little doorknocker to thump a few times impatiently and the askee can open up the little door, answer sarcastically and then slam the little wrought iron flap to punctuate the "dropping the kids off at the pool, what else?" response.


The lake was lovely in the twilight, and Dougie enjoyed some fresh air. (What? Dougie looks suspiciously new and clean and smells like Ebay? Are you accusing me of letting Josephine lose him possibly at a certain LCBO on Gerrard one afternoon a month or so ago and having replaced him with a nearly identical imposter? You are? Well...well...if she asks, we miraculously cloned him from a bit of DNA we found.)



Speaking of dogs, the B&B has an extra special host, the lovely Duffy. There is nothing like having a stinky, soulful eyed basset hound at your knee during breakfast. It wasn't so much that we don't love Beauty to absolute pieces, but it's like, oh, having a regular cheeseburger instead of McDLT. A change is as good as a rest, you know.



Breakfast?


It IS a B&B - not one of the dubious motels we usually stay at, you know! Breakfast was lovely, served at 8 AM (so of course we ate in shifts, went back to bed to sleep a little more, and then went for an all day breakfast at a neat-o place in Bobcaygeon later. The brunch spot had all vintage kitchen tables and chairs, and one of those terribly unsafe but very cool vintage high chairs. Oh so perfect for us! See?



Wait! But before we went to town, Steve took Josie out to the dock to look at brownies.



Hahaha, apparently that's a name for Trout or something. NOT the stuff we usually see floating in the Don. See?



There were also crayfish in there, and minnows and stuff and I took pictures, but you don't really need to see them. I've already put too much time into this and I have lots more to go. You'll see.

But she was all cute and SAFE, having figured out how to buckle up her lifejacket.



Then, we went into town for the aforementioned brunch and also hit some of the many and really nice antique stores. One is owned by the wife of the B&B owner, and there I bought this little Art Deco thermos tea or coffee pot to use for tea parties with Josephine:



For only $6. SIX. S.I.X. Dollars. In Toronto, an Art Deco anything is sixtyhundreddollars, because it's Art Deco, and people like the Designer Guys and Kimberly Seldon get all jazz hands about cute things like this. Come to think of it, it's too good for Josephine. I'm keeping it for my second cup of morning coffee during my blog reading sessions. Or ice water. Hahaha, I don't drink enough water. It'll be coffee.

ANYWAY.

Steve and Josie and I shared an ice cream cone in a charming little shop. Mint Chocolate Chip, because Steve says that every other flavour makes him thirsty. Hmmpf.



Then we bought a few groceries, and some things at the drugstore, came back to the B&B to find we were locked out!

See, there was a storm door and a regular interior door leading out of the room, and another door leading to the main hallway. But we were never given a key, so we locked the outside door and figured we'd enter through the house just as we came in. We waited for a bit in the gorgeous screened porch and I painted my toenails and read old issues of Country Living. Steve drank a beer or two, even though he already needed to um, shake hands with the Governor. This waiting lasted over half an hour and our two hour nap and get ready for the wedding time was circling the drain. In the end, mainly due to a certain person's urgent need, I had to drive to town to the antique store (it's totally walking distance, but I was in a hurry and it was bloody hot) and thankfully, Mr. K was there and came back to let us in. Apparently, it is safe enough around there to leave all of your valuables in an unlocked room. Again with a hmmpf.

And so, to the wedding (and the I cried twice parts)!

In the next post, because I really need to at least start some laundry and Swiffer the kitchen floor.

We Work Hard For The Money.

Our first day at work was not a disaster. Except for the part where it came time to actually sell something, all went well. Get this - I haven't done math in sixteen months. So working backwards from $45 to include the tax was a major exercise - one whine from Josephine during the transaction and my brain cells liquified and I practically had to take my shoes off and count on my toes.

Here's a glimpse:



If you can figure out where I am, you can come and visit me. Um, and my shotgun and vicious dog if you're a thief or robber.



A view out the window, including the permanent visual reminder of life's endless possibilities.



I love these little blue chairs. Tempting, very tempting. Useless, quite useless. Oh - I mean for me. Someone else should buy them because they are very styley and adorable and durable and stuff.



These are so cool - journals and photo albums made from reclaimed books and record albums. Their manufacturer won an award for best recycled project or something more official sounding that I really should memorize in order to be able to sell them more effectively, huh? Guess what everyone's getting for Christmas this year?



See? This looks like my basement! We have like six of these record players! In the background you can see these neat market tote bags made out of oilcloth. I love them too - so cheerful, and waterproof. There are also patio pillows made out of the stuff, and we just got a shipment of cosmetic bags and other neat things. Will the fun and funkiness ever end?



Here's Josephine crawling on the newly re-upholstered pony fabric chair, holding a sharp rusty cow doorstop thing. She unfortunately, has fallen in love with the little orange vinyl hassock. We have yet to refine her taste toward neutral colours or interestingly textured fabrics, or even to teach her to sew slipcovers, so I'm hoping that doesn't follow us home. Hey, our living room is very green. Orange will not do.

Yes, I realize she's not wearing pants. No, we're not having the office Christmas party in June.

Josephine took the opportunity to spill an entire water bottle on herself in her playpen when I was making a sale, thus effectively keeping her overtired little self out of there for a nap, and her lower extremities sans pants for a good three hours while her carefully chosen outfit dried. I brought and extra shirt, but not pants. The shirt I brought was not one that I could turn upside down and stick her legs through the arms in order to provide some bottom coverage. Yes, that did happen previously, although it was not done by me. (Don’t mention this in front of the usband-hay - he still feels that a certain shirt she once owned could be justifiably confused with pants.)

But don't we all find it easier to make executive decisions without pants?



Time to get dressed now. By the way - guess who is napping on my lap right now when she isn't supposed to be?!!! Make her stop!

What Shall We Do With The Baby-O?

It's hard to believe that tomorrow at noon, Josephine and I are going to walk into a cute little store, and begin working there for three days each week, over the next month and a half. On top of our busy schedule of walks to the park, shopping for groceries, cleaning the house and generally trying to get through each day. Why do I think we need this?

Because it's getting myself back on track. If, according to what I thought life had in store for me (hahaha - in STORE) when I quit the busy auction house job to go and run A STORE, where I was promised I could bring the baby I'd hoped to have some day, had actually happened - this would be my every day anyway. Here it is, being handed to me again. And even better this time. And I am up all night having nightmares and feeling like I'm managing all of this so badly already that I'm just asking for trouble. This store is right across the street from where I was supposed to be working. Serendipity or stupidity?

There are voices in my head, and on the computer screen in front of me, and all around me, telling me that other women work outside of the home and have more than one baby and even worse scenarios than mine - but I don't know how they do it. I am a formerly competent professional who has lost her edge. It already takes me all day to get through the day, and I ask myself, "Why is it so hard for ME?".

A few weeks ago, I got a call from one of the antique dealers in the area that I've been friendly with since meeting him at the auction house. He'd given my name to the owner of a small shop who needed some extra help, because he thought I'd be right for the job. She called, and we clicked and it's awesome - the store even looks like my home. All the bits and things are nice and retro and eclectic and funky. It's about the size of my living room. All I have to to is keep it open between twelve and six, Wednesdays through Fridays for the next month an a half while the owner does some props and set dec buying for a new Tim Allen movie that's filming here. Dust a little. Sell things, but not aggressively. Be nice to people. The clients are everyone from neighbourhood folk to film rentals to decorators to aliens for all I know. I can do it. This is what I've done all my life. The pay is decent, and there's a mini fridge and I can bring our own music and most importantly, I can bring Josephine. We'll do this periodically as the store owner gets the opportunity to do her other job.

So WE have a job! I'm not freaking out about leaving her - I'm freaking out about restructuring our lazy lives to accommodate a mere eighteen hours a week. What is WITH me? I'm having nightmares wherein I walk down the street, key in hand and the store isn't there. I'm thinking, "But it was always here! I'm sure it was here!". In the dream, I'm pushing the stroller, have the play pen slung in its bag over my shoulder, she's crying and I can't think because of the din and the whole streetscape has changed from what it is supposed to be. Or else, in a dream I walk into the store and I'm selling things that I don't know anything about. Certainly those are simple anxiety dreams - but I was never an anxious person before. What has become of me?

Despite a few bad or weird turns in life, I've always landed either on my feet, or next to something that proved to be a great support. I am a lucky person, and I am not surprised to have been offered this job. Of course I can do it.

I've been talking amongst friends and family about how I hope to make it work - getting Josephine up and fed and to the park and tired out and pushing her nap until afternoon and she'll sleep in the playpen for some of our time there and then either Steve's mom or another friend will take her for an hour or more in the afternoons so she's not cooped up for six hours blah blah blah. The problem is, this is not matching the actual toddler, who took three mini naps yesterday, had a freak-out and a truly horrific poopy diaper at Wal-Mart where I was buying her a lifejacket for our upcoming cottage weekend, and who cried through dinner mainly because we had guests, and then got so overtired she was literally doing back flips off the bed when I was trying to get her pajamas on her. The child who has been weaning pretty well, except for bedtime and morning feedings, has not been off my chest for more than half an hour since six this morning. She is passed out on my lap right now in a poopy diaper that I don't want to wake her to change. She was only supposed to have a bit, and then we'd get clean and dressed and put away laundry and have lunch and then nap later. She is not supposed to be sleeping now. But I saw the opportunity to post, so I grabbed it because certainly I've been delinquent about clearing out my brain these days. It is precisely this lack of discipline in myself that I fear will make of mess of my best laid plans.

And me? I have had headaches every morning upon waking up for the last week from sleeping with my jaw clenched, and thus have achieved new levels in surliness with Steve. My plans to get all of the laundry done on Mondays are to be laughed at. Tuesday errand day? Not happening. Wash and hang all the curtains before I start the job because they need to be done and I won't have time for the next while? Um, they're washed, but are still sitting in a wrinkly pile that is going to take extra ironing - unless I re-wash them. Frankly, I'm all talk. What's going to happen is I'm going to fly by the seat of my pants tomorrow.

The comparison to a dear friend (so dear she kept my dead cat in her freezer for a season), that took a job two hours away from her wonderful husband (who is so wonderful he built a coffin for Homey) and cats so that she could start a new aspect of her career also makes me feel like shoe scrapings. She's doing something much harder than what I've taken on, and I'm whining.

The mommies in my first playgroup are all back to work, some of them pregnant again, and I'm whining.

And I'm going to whine about something else - another twist of fate has put me in this lousy mood lately. My ex-husband, the hosey mall chick he left me for way back when, and their nine-month old baby are moving back to town. For a decade, he's been safely over the border in a major city I never need to go to; and the only news that I've heard has either come from people who've crossed paths with him or from my ex-in-laws, whom I occasionally run into. So now I hear this in a "you need to know this so you don't get surprised one day" way from a very very good friend. And, because that friend is kind and honest, she will not tell me that the baby is a troll and that the sins of the parents have obviously been visited upon it. But she does love me enough to tell me that the teenage hosey mall chick now looks terrible - bags under her eyes, a little frumpy and a lot puffier (don't we all want to hear that!? Clap your hands and dance a little jig with me!) It seems she's been the breadwinner, and him a stay at home dad for their daughter (that's a nice way of saying unemployed, right?). His mom is buying them a house - thankfully not in town (I guess squatting in a flat in an abandoned hospital has grown tiresome). But the new home is near, very near, to our friends who gave us this news. One of the benefits of being shed of him was that as the wronged one, I got to keep the friends. When he did some really jerky things to them too, he alienated them even more. He's been a bit of a joke amongst us for some time. Now, he's started calling the people he's moving close to in order to rekindle a friendship. It's not a contest - and I certainly have nothing to worry about in terms of my relationships with them. They're not that interested, really, and are even a bit concerned about how to handle it politely, as I understand it. But it's the seeing the prodigals in public from time to time in the future. The polite small talk. The reminder that once upon a time, I was devastated by him, and now it's even more embarrassing because he's quite a dink. The glimpse at where my life could have been that I don't want to be reminded of when I'm so happy now. Fate took its course, and I'm where I'm supposed to be- in life, in love, and at work and play and I'm grateful. But I'm not admiring what I see in the rearview mirror, and I just don't feel like driving a curvy road these days.

Speaking of, we have a cottage wedding this weekend that's a three hour drive away. We're staying at a charming Bed and Breakfast on the same lake for a few days around it, and we're going to have fun dammit. Even if Josephine's shitfit at WalMart yesterday meant I had to buy a bathing suit without trying it on and that I couldn't find something else to wear at Winners since the outfit that I'd planned on wearing did not match the image in my head that I had of myself in it. How come a little silk blouse and flippy skirt can look all flirty and sweet when you close your eyes and think of yourself in it, yet when you put it on, it looks like a blouse that's tight in the sleeves and gapes over the chest and the skirt is staticky, and somehow you've got tan stripes around your ankles where you wore cuffed jeans and ballet flats one day without sun block and so now you need to either find shoes you can wear hose with or find a way to tan the white parts and not tan the tan parts?

All He Wanted For Father's Day Was Peace And Quiet.

THE




BEST




DADDY





EVER.



Happy Father's Day Steve, even though you never read this.

It's Not Chevy.

Okay, Ann D.'s recent thread in the comments for a certain post has induced me to offer a prize to the first person brave enough to muck through the archives and find Josephine's middle name. Ann is disqualified, because if she looks at the original Hatch Show Print birth announcement I included in her fun pack, she will see it there - although maybe she packed it up and mailed it to someone as a prize along with some choking hazards and facial goo. Don't feel sorry for her though, chances are she'll get some Pocky or other goodies out of me another time.

I haven't decided what the prize is, other than it will be something from around my house and that Steve will be glad to see it go. In fact, if you look through my old Close to Home post or others like it showing things I like, you may see something there. Don't worry, it won't be the 34 Selected Kraut Recipes book becase that's already gone elsewhere. It MAY include a sticky rodent trap. It will most likely NOT include the dog, and will probably not include dog poo. It WILL include a box of Pocky.

This is EASY people, but don't beat each other up trying to be the first to grab a piece of my old rubbish! Ann had the great idea to repackage clutter as prizes, I'm just going with it. It reminds me of how much I liked the idea during that poker game in Benny and Joon - only nobody's getting Johnny Depp as a prize.

Stabs in the dark and humorous guesses based on previous posts will also be appreciated, and may possibly win prizes, the winners of which will be decided arbitrarily, randomly, and with no formal basis upon which to assign merit. Cheating, bribes, and pleas for favoritism are encouraged.

The person who can guess what Josephine's middle name would be if she had been born one day later also gets a prize of a similar bent.

A Message From the Public Broadcasting Service.

If the post there's been some clamoring for is delayed again, it's because I have so many comments to read today. Wow! I may hit the double digits!

Truly, I need to spend time answering Ann D.'s questions. It's fun. I like tests. Some of you may have been the victims of this.

I've never mentioned how much I like comments. I stopped having them sent to my Email box, because I like looking at the actual page to see what's new. I'm still confused as to what the etiquette is, so sometimes I answer personally, sometimes in the comments themselves, and sometimes on the other blogs or not at all, if no reply seems warranted - most often after some time has passed and I can come up with something thoughtful. Or quickly and briefly so that I sound like a jerk. But I read every one, and it's like getting a phone call with good news or a nice little pat on the back. Even you lurkers, and I know who some of you are, are nice to have around. I'm happy and grateful that I feel like a part of something. Thanks. I try to write for myself here, but once you know there's an audience, you can't help but perform a little.

But today, to hold over until a real post, I just want to say THANKS! IT MAKES MY DAY TO SEE Y'ALL CHECKING IN. I started this for myself, as I've said, because I can type faster than I can write and the format suits me. I didn't realize how much I crave attention, and I hope I'm not being too vainglorious - I'm just being myself if you know me.

Yes, I intend to catch up later, because I've just received the necessary gossip required to tie everything into a cohesive post, and got the ok to blog about the new job. I'm waiting for permission to put a picture from Josie's session up. Damn copyrights.

But, before I get to doing the things around the house that will give me the time to write later:

Ann D., you should also provide the disclaimer that the answers to your questionnaires may cause marital discord. When Steve reads my answers, he says they sound like they've come from a reasonable, intelligent, calm and collected person who has researched her position thoroughly, and who has responded to each situation with a mix of rational thought, warm emotive response, great flexibility and humour. He's wondering where that person is. Okay, and really he said something to the effect that they sound like they're from someone who has her s#it together. Okay, he didn't say that either - he just snorted and walked away shaking his head. I'm wondering if he'll notice I spit in his coffee this morning and used his toothbrush to clean the grunge around the taps in the bathroom. (hahaha - not really, but I am NOT going to use dryer sheets to make his clothes soft and smell nice when I do his laundry this week - take THAT naysayer!)

But just in case he's right, you should also disclaim that the answers might bear no resemblance to the actual authors - who actually may be cranky, irrational scatterbrains who haplessly thumb through only the relevant sections of books, seeing them through bleary tearstained eyes while desperately trying to find a comfortable position on the floor next to the crib and trying not to spill their bourbon and who are wondering just how bad a dose of drowsy-making Tempra given for purely non-medical reasons would be for each party involved. Dog included.

That goes for blog posts too - but, really, they actually do resemble a snarky, slightly ditzy, formerly responsible and intelligent person who used to run an entire department that generated over half a million dollars a year and handled things worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, but who now changes poopy diapers, exercises amazing stain removal capabilities and who fights the clean floor battle daily; and who is wondering how she's going to handle eighteen hours a week in a store with many breakable things and a toddler in tow and still maintain her household to the already lax standards in place - and who is writing this with a toddler who just fell asleep on her lap when she wasn't supposed to and her freshly poured coffee is cooling in the kitchen all. the. way. downstairs.

A ten o'clock nap means she'll need one later and I'll get to post, right? RIGHT?

Gift Horses.

Well, you won't get the gossip here today. Thanks to Ann D., for her lovely contest prizes, if you must ask why.

The mailman will also be thanking her for the wet spot on the front of his pants from when he got the big WOOF from Beauty when trying to just open the screen door and slip the box in.

By the way, despite her claims of being quite immersed in her new book, she has time to stick adorable little ladybug stickers on the box.



Because Josephine just learned the gruesome "Ladybug Ladybug fly away home..." rhyme, it was cause for several, and I mean at least seven, repeats of that ditty.

And everything was charmingly packed. With straw.











But, the contents were exciting to behold, smell wonderful and will be incredibly useful; even if only for making me smell nice for Steve's Father's Day present (Hahahahaha, really, truly it is being out of the house so I don't nag while he and his friends finish the porch this weekend. Cripes. It's been nearly ten years and we have a toddler. As. If.).



There were even some pretty seashells/choking hazards in there - because in addition to removing hotel swag, apparently she also appropriates the décor. Nice, Ann. The next thing that will happen will be that you'll turn into my mother. When my Mom's on one of her senior citizen junkets to Atlantic City, she actually makes up excuses for the staff to come to her room so that she can lift things off the cart while whatever she called for is being attended to. Anyone need any Claridge's shoe polishing cloths?

Well, everything is lovely, and I'm glad you did swipe all this great stuff and find an excuse to send it to me. Especially the L'Occitane stuff. Schwing!

Except, I'm wondering about one item in particular...



Wait - not that one. I get that joke. AR AR - HUMOUR, Ann!



This one:



It's simply labeled on the front :

[ comfort zone ]
absolute protection
couperosis

Now, of course I'm going to Google that when I get a minute. Because the directions don't make it easier to understand what it is and what it does. And the size and shape of the package...well, it's squishy so I guess it's lotion of some sort. I REALLY do not stay in the right hotels, I guess, because I'm usually lucky if there's a can of Lysol behind the toilet, let alone incomprehinsible Italian packets of lotion.

Directions: Every morning apply the right amount of product to the face and neck.

That could be one of the interestingly named "unexpensive medicaments" that was offered to me via bulk mail this morning, you know! What, pray tell exactly is the "right amount"? Did it originally come with a trowel or a teaspoon?

At any rate, now that I have good smelly stuff to go play with, a proper thank you to write and weird words to Google, I can't possibly take the time to write about Josephine's burgeoning modeling career and our little job and our horribleterribleawful weekend in Buffalo, and how a dear friend got a job that means she has to move pretty far away and I'm sad about that.

Truth is, I have four baskets of laundry to put away and grocery shopping to do, STRAW TO PICK UP and there's a break in the passing thunderstorms that means I should get at the errands if I don't want to wrestle a trunkload of wet shopping and a cranky toddler.



So, more another time.

Oh, and you're right. It seems there is still some sun block on the lens. I'll take care of that.

As well, I have the second set of Ann's Sleep Book questions to answer; and since I don't want to be too brief or concise with them, I have to save my energy for that later tonight too.





Okay, even more truthfully, I'm finding it hard to write compellingly about the other things, not that I pretend this is actual writing that does anything more than keep my brain from bursting. Perhaps I can illustrate them or even briefly cover them on another day. But for now, this will have to do.

I Have Better Things To Do.

(giant sucking noise)

(stretches, contact lenses feel gritty, smell of sand and sun block and baby hair, damp clothes, wrinkles and impressions from buttons and vinyl and fabric on my skin, tickly throat from allergies, hot dog breath panting against my leg, breeze washing over me, squirrels chattering in the tree above, more stretching)

Oh, oops, Hi!

Josephine and I fell asleep on the glider, and napped for over an hour and a half out there. It was lovely, in a let's not do this too often way. So, there went my chance to catch up. Too bad.

By the way, it's a great glider - one of those 1940's heavy, metal ones, with one long cushion and three back cusions - like a sofa on rails. I should rent naps on it.

PS - The giant sucking noise was the skin of my cheek ripping itself away from the vinyl glider cushion as I sat up. Oy, we both look like we had a nap on the glider. Definitely. Time for a late lunch and the rest of the day. Must look into having a cover made for it.

Come back tomorrow?

Triumphant.

Hi! We're back, and I'm just giddy about it (arms waving about so as to give a big air hug and show joy)!

I am not pointing fingers, but it seems that SOMEBODY partially severed through the high speed cable, which enters the house right near the PORCH.

(Doing an energetic dance which involves great sweeping finger pointing motions in general direction of the husband, who did not renovate the front porch in one weekend for $500 as promised, but who is still working on the porch three weeks later at $1200 and counting and by the way, the dance includes mouthing the words "Yeeeeees, I'm suuuure weeee didn't cut the caaaaaable".)

Exhibit A



Here is the other Steve, a.k.a. Possibly the Culprit, with what is, perhaps, his weapon of choice for partially severing cables.

Of course, the cable repair man didn't come until later, we didn't eat lunch because we were waiting for him and didn't want to be interrupted and of course we didn't nap for the same reason, and now the IN box has hundreds of messages and I owe about ten apologetic emails and so of course the first thing I did was post this and check my referral logs to see who I've missed (for the record, um, I DIDN'T DO IT), and thanks Jen, for Monday, where traffic soared into the double digits!

What all this means, is that I don't have time to write a long and verbose post as usual. (What was that? Ed.) (Hahahaha! You're your own editor! Now stop making snarky comments to yourself. Ed.) We will not be finishing the porch this weekend because we're off to the Allentown Art Festival, where my dear friend Julia is exhibiting and I'll be spending time with her lovely son. Steve and her husband will probably be drinking beer all afternoon at my old haunt, which somehow no longer feels like a place where this mommy wants to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon when there's street food to be eaten and tsotchkes to buy and two little needy people to keep happy. That means I have to pack up our stuff, get Beauty to the vet for the shots she couldn't get when she was feeling mighty poorly the other week, and cash the check from Josephine's first modeling shoot yesterday and get things sorted for the job we start next week.

"Wait!" you say, "Don't go! Tell us of this modeling experience and your JOB! You got a job ?!?"

Snickering evilly, she signs off, hoping for visits in the double digits again some day and more pleas for a return to posting.

(That's a stupid device. Ed.) (Other people do it and think it's funny. Ed.) (Stop reading so many similarly conceited columns in Vanity Fair then. Ed.) (No, you stop it. Ed.)

(silly slap fight with myself ensues.)

STATIC.

Our connection has been either down or only briefly up since Saturday. Yes, that bites. A technician is coming tomorrow, sometime between 9 and 2. Let's all hold our breath.

Shame, Shame, Shame.

I have been naive. I've had to go back and change a certain post, because after checking my referral logs, I realized that every day for a couple of weeks, this blog has come up during searches for, how shall I frame it, "people who will eventually become adult males emptying certain bladderly organs against deciduous vegetation", and they may not have been other mommies hoping to find a commonality. It was the image search for the act described above that made me go hmmmmm today. Who knew that every day, there would be at least three searches for such a thing, and that today someone wanted specifically a shot of a toddler in action. Just in case, I shall refrain from using sentences using the word P-E-E. There are so many better words that pervs probably won't Google, and I'm probably creative enough to explore those options instead.

Summer Dreams

We had a lovely few hours in the back yard yesterday. Josephine played for minutes and minutes at a time with an old enamel basin and one of my watering cans.



It was so sweet and peaceful and beautiful, and I got all misty observing her. Because I realized something as I watched her playing, bent over the water, fascinated and unconscious of my gaze.



I realized that there was some sun block on the camera lens.



And seeing her squatting there like that, all absorbed in what she's doing and unaware of how I'm looking at her, I had a vision. I had this...this...flash...that she might grow up to be a plumber some day.

Happy Almost Summer!

May's Month of Softies

Here's Mae Flower sitting in my flowering Crab Apple tree. In the tradition of some people who attribute quirky characteristics to their creations, I must say that like her creator, she prefers perennials, refuses to drink eight glasses of water each day, and has been known to frequent seedy places.

I've been secretly visiting crafty blogs (Who am I hiding from? I don't know. Sometimes, okay, frequently - I don't look at blogs I have to read and think about in order to rest my brain; for the same reason that sometimes I pick up a magazine instead of a book. Hey, I'm a glossy gal!), and Loobylu is one of my favourites. I just love the Month of Softies idea. I'm not sure I'll ever do it again, although the June Bug idea is tempting. If only because a nest of spiders hatched from under the arm of my glider in the back yard this morning. At first I was like, "Awwwww, just like Charlotte's Web." and then I was like "F@#$! They're everywhere! And their f@#$ing strings! On my leg! Aaaah! I hate you all! STEVE COME KILL THEM! COME KILL THEM NOW!" So maybe I'm done with June in regards to bugs already - or I'll make some freakish manifestation of the baby spider phobia I developed this morning.


I was feeling creative one afternoon in April, for about ten minutes. And so I ran downstairs and brought up some old fake flowers I once bought at an Estate Sale:



and took some old wooden clothespins I've been collecting (someday I'll make dolls out of them with Josephine):



And made these two lovely ladies with my trusty hot glue gun, which is otherwise reserved for wrapping presents and upholstering the coffee table. (Wrapping presents you say? Really? Why yes - in this house you cannot wrap a present with tape because you will also be giving the gift of dried cous cous and dog hairs.)



The pink one went to Ann D. in her fun package. Next week, the purple one will be winging it to a sunny state across the continent - specifically to the place that I swear sounds either like a new extreme salad dressing - or a name that Fonzie made up. Oops! Well, that's only part of the surprise.



Here she is sitting near some Spurge in my front garden. I love that name for a plant. SPURGE! "Look out! Your shoe is near some SPURGE!" "Woah! Getta load of that SPURGE!" "Excuse me, is that a SPURGE?". "What a large Spurge you have!"


This was fun, and the inspiration and execution came over me like a craving for S'mores. I.E. - specific, made with only three ingredients, and gone for a long time once it's been satisfied.