My Own Answers for the "Getting To Know Me Questionnaire for The Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Bonanza"

TA-DA!

This was HARD, and I wrote it! To answer it, I learned how to use italics - and was even tempted to try colours. It's crazy!



If I could get away with it, I'd steal Julia Gilmore's talent, dedication, eye for beauty, impossibly charming son, and beautifully decrepit house in the country (her husband is nothing to shake a stick at either, but I adore my Steve) because damn it, they should be mine.

I sometimes buy Martha Stewart's magazines, because I lust after a clean orderly home where everything is done better - not faster and easier.

If you came over to my house to play and broke my blue-gray crayon, I'd be a little bit mad at you forever. (Because the colour was retired in 1990 - get this - because Crayola thought this colour and its name was too dull to appeal to today's kids. Jerks.)


Neon colours should only be used in fungal remedy packaging or if human waste were to be redesigned.

The colours used in vintage children's book illustrations
make my heart feel like it is full of happy kittens frolicking in a sunny, grassy meadow.

Tequila makes me break out in gooberous pustules (or else I just don't like it, but I'm too nice to say it.) (Or else I had way too much one fine Saturday afternoon and woke up naked except for an apron and with the dog licking my salt-and-lemon-slimed hand.)

I might get sick or die if I touch or ingest cigarettes (really - an anaphylactic reaction will ensue!), or look at Precious Moments figurines and other future landfill items marketed directly at faux sentimental fools who don't really want to explore what they're filling an empty hole in their life with. (I don't want to be harsh - a few make a lovely display. Hundreds mean you need help.)

Reading Family Circus cartoons and touching squeaky clean glasses give me the heebie jeebies and I might need to seek therapy if I even think about them further.

I love the feel of cashmere, and running my hand through flour so much I have a primitive urge to stick some down my pants (cashmere more, flour not so much).

No one should have to watch me eat warm flourless chocolate tortes with molten centres and brittle crusts served with hand made vanilla bean ice cream and accompanied by a fine, strong dark coffee, or perhaps a glass of really nice red wind , because really If I were eating some in private, I'd be quite a pig about it.

I would rather chew tinfoil and shave my head with a cheese grater than eat things with glutinous textures. Everything that goes in my mouth should be silky and creamy, or moist and tender or crisp and brittle in delightful way.

I DON’T follow recipes because I view them as inspiration and a sense of proportion - but I never have all the ingredients or the energy to pull a book out. Besides, there'll be this wonderful recipe that assumes everyone in the world has a food processor - and I won't be able to figure out how to to it without one so I re-design it for myself. Or else it will sound perfectly wonderful, except for something gross like anise oil.

For Marla, "White Shoulders" perfume will always smell like her laid-out dead grandmother. I feel that way about well, White Shoulders of course. But I also hate love hate love hate the smell of Final Net hairspray with all the same mixed sentiments that come up in scent-evoked memories.

If I could, I'd perfume my own farts and those of my loved ones with the scent of hazelnut coffee, with a lemon pound cake chaser .

I have TOO MANY plans and hopes and dreams and thoughts, and not enough time and energy and follow-through and desire to make them happen in the way that gets other women featured in a Reader's Digest article.

Gadgets are for taking up precious drawer space that could otherwise be used for collections of paper clutter like vintage books, photographs and fine examples of period graphic art.

When people have kind, sweet and nice things about me, they're usually talking about how well I behaved on that particular day - but I probably went home questioning everything I did or said, convinced I was a spaz and that they hate me.

I can't be upset if people dis me about being bossy, sarcastic and having a remarkable grasp of the trivial, because it's true.

If I could have any talent in the world, I'd choose to paint, and use it to speak with pictures, not words and sounds.



You are given an hour and twenty dollars to spend in one of these places, childfree. Choose one, or write your own:

A flea market, where you might find neat treasures and still have enough left over for some home made baked goods from that nice granny's table. (DUH, I wrote this and it's first for a reason, you know. Second choice is the pub.)

A picturesque pub, where a couple of great drinks and a nice tip might lead to some interesting conversations.

A craft show, because you really need to find a few more things made from twigs and yarn.

A gourmet food store, because food for the tummy is food for the soul.

A fancy and expensive boutique, because you'd rather have one lipstick from a great place than ten lipsticks from a dollar store.

Wherever! Whatever! Just give the twenty dollars to whomever's caring for the offspring so you can have more time to yourself!


And here's the last chance to make sure that you're not going to get a "Jelly of the Month" club membership when you're expecting your bonus for a swimming pool:

It is important to me that the items chosen for me have a winsome, homey, unique and thoughtful quality. The dictionary gives, and my own opinion concurs with, the definition of winsome as "charming, especially because of a naïve, innocent quality" - or as Steve would call it "badly painted homely shit that they couldn’t get rid of at a garage sale." I also hope that my gifter has fun - this is inspiration, not a shopping list.
(Examples: respect my Wal-Mart boycott, are vegan, aren't made by child or sweatshop labour, can be stuffed down my pants)

And

If I could suggest that you read only one post from my archives,: this would be it


And

If I were to name the Holiday of my choice for this exchange, it would be: Christmas circa 1957.



The draw will be held on Thursday December 1, over at Andrea's blog Beanie Baby performed by the WBBE,BN who just happens to be a dead ringer for Cindy Lou Who.

Um, this one:
.

(Google image searches are SO fun!)

By the way, I moved the other relative posts below this one by changing the dates - Blogger sucks that way.

The Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Bonanza Categories and Questionnaire

As per the previous post (oh, don't make me link to it - it's right below this one!), here are the Gift Themes/Category Suggestions and the "Getting To Know Me" Questionnaire. If you'd like a copy of this emailed to you for easier cut and paste purposes, let us know.

Please work toward completing it by the end of the month, so that your Secret Spoiler can have time to choose the appropriate wee gifties once the assignments have been made. And do note - it's a draw, not a pairing off! You may not be gifting the person who will be choosing nice things for you! But you should behave as if she were! That's why this is so cool! Post the completed questionnaire eithe under the title "Getting To Know Me Questionnaire for The Winter Holiday of Your Choice Blog Bonanza" so it can be found in your archives, or put it in a sidebar if you know how.


Gift Themes/Category Suggestions:

Something old - Something New
Something naughty - Something nice
Something soft - Something hard
Something sweet - Something spicy
Something homey - Something far-out,
Something rock - Something scissors - Something paper
Something handmade - Something made by "the man"
Something clean - Something Dirty
Something useless and beautiful - Something useful and beautiful

(If you'd like to suggest or add another category, let us know so everyone else has a chance to choose items representing it too.)

Or, perhaps the entire collection can form a theme :
"Biker Chick Goes to Paris"
"The Seven Deadly Sins"
"Starving Artist"
(perhaps even one of your own invention - it can be unique, but should be somewhat identifiable to your recipient)


Fill in the blanks:

If I could get away with it, I'd steal _________'s ____________________, because damn it, it should be mine.

I sometimes buy _____________________ magazine, because I lust after ________________.

If you came over to my house to play and broke my ________________ crayon, I'd be a little bit mad at you forever.

The colour _______________ should only be used in fungal remedy packaging or if human waste were to be redesigned.

The colour _________________ makes my heart feel like it is full of happy kittens frolicking in a sunny, grassy meadow.

_______________________ makes me break out in gooberous pustules (or else I just don't like it, but I'm too nice to say it.)

I might get sick or die if I touch or ingest _______________, or look at ____________________.

_______________________ gives me the heebie jeebies and I might need to seek therapy if I even think about it further.

I love the feel of _______________ so much I have a primitive urge to stick some down my pants.

No one should have to watch me eat ___________________, because really If I were eating some in private, I'd be quite a pig about it.

I would rather chew tinfoil and shave my head with a cheese grater than eat ___________________.

I DO/DON’T follow recipes because ______________________________.

For Marla, "White Shoulders" perfume will always smell like her laid-out dead grandmother. I feel that way about _________________________.

If I could, I'd perfume my own farts and those of my loved ones with the scent of ____________________________.

I have TOO MANY/TOO MUCH OF __________________________, and not enough _______________________.

Gadgets are for _____________________.

When people have kind, sweet and nice things about me, they're usually talking about ________________________.

I can't be upset if people dis me about _____________, because it's true.

If I could have any talent in the world, I'd choose ________________ and use it to _________________________.



You are given an hour and twenty dollars to spend in one of these places, childfree. Choose one, or write your own:

A flea market, where you might find neat treasures and still have enough left over for some home made baked goods from that nice granny's table.

A picturesque pub, where a couple of great drinks and a nice tip might lead to some interesting conversations.

A craft show, because you really need to find a few more things made from twigs and yarn.

A gourmet food store, because food for the tummy is food for the soul.

A fancy and expensive boutique, because you'd rather have one lipstick from a great place than ten lipsticks from a dollar store.

Wherever! Whatever! Just give the twenty dollars to whomever's caring for the offspring so you can have more time to yourself!


And here's the last chance to make sure that you're not going to get a "Jelly of the Month" club membership when you're expecting your bonus for a swimming pool:

It is important to me that the items chosen for me ___________________________.
(Examples: respect my Wal-Mart boycott, are vegan, aren't made by child or sweatshop labour, can be stuffed down my pants)

And

If I could suggest that you read only one post from my archives, this would be it: _____________________________

And

If I were to name the Holiday of my choice for this exchange, it would be: __________________________ (Please feel free to make one up - but this is your chance to say "Um, I'm Jewish but that doesn't mean give me dreidels!" or "More Santa decorations please - I only have thirty-seven now." or "Winter and gifts yes; religious denominations, no - if only all cards could be like those politically correct corporate holiday wishes!" if you want to.)


Let me say that I'm looking forward to this chance to spoil someone as I'd like to be spoiled myself.

For so many years. I've put lots of thought and time into gifts for friends and family, and have enjoyed the process more than anything. Sometimes it's a bit lost on the giftee, but that doesn't daunt me. I have never ever just handed something over without having considered how an item would be received. Years and years working in retail taught me how emotionally loaded gift exchanges can be - and yet I still love the thrill of finding something that might be perfect and I often feel disappointed when I get short shrift in return. When someone really finds the right present for me, I'll inwardly sqeal with glee (and outwardly sometimes too) becasue they've shown me that they've glimpsed my soul. And it's not hard - sometimes that's as simple as a gift of a bottle of bourbon.

Presents can be a great way to learn about how someone views you. I doubt anyone who reads my blog thinks I'd like a sponge painted teacup with a goose in a bonnet on it - but one of you might figure out that a 1954 copy of Life magazine with instructions on how to dance the Cha-lypso or vintage chenille Christmas ornaments would be great. Or, one of you might not know that the perfect Pocky flavour exists for you and I'm the one to find it. After reading my own answers to this questionnaire, you will know me better than most of my family members currently do.

And so, you crazy participants - go out there and spoil your fellow blogger.

Because even though her family and friends love her and will be thinking about her, NOBODY will be doing it in quite the same way you will, and that's thrilling. How fun - the giving will be as fun as the getting!

Could I Be Your Girl?

I've volunteered to help Andrea over at Beanie Baby with her Holiday of Your Choice Extravaganza, because I'm like that. Here's the idea:


1. Tell her you want in by leaving a comment here. This is so that everyone who is participating gets a chance to "meet" all the other participants. Then post this message on your own blog or trackback here or over at Beanie Baby so we can hook as many fish as we can.

2. Send her your snail mail address. I promise she is not a creepy internet weirdo who will use this info to stalk you or sell it to marketing firms. Her daughter, Frances - The World's Best Baby Ever, Bar None, will do a Big Draw to pair people up (She'll take photos of her picking the names, if she can). She will then email people to give them the name and address of their giftee.

3. Fill out the handy-dandy Gift Questionnaire, which I will be putting together over the next few days - I hope to have it up by Sunday morning here, over at Andrea's by Tuesday. The responses to the questionnaire should be easily accessible. Post them on your blog or Live Journal.

4. When you have the name of your giftee and their answers to the Gift Questionnaire, it is time to start putting together a little package of gifts (Check out her site, and use her answers plus whatever you find by reading old posts and archives). We are thinking a shoebox sized ensemble of small and inexpensive items. This is not about the money; it's about having some fun and putting a bit of thought into it. A comfortable pre-shipping gift max would be $25 (if you think that's too much or too little, let us know; nothing is set in stone yet).

5. As you purchase or make the items, take photos that you can post on your blog in January, after the gift has been received. We'll set a date for this post so they all appear at the same time, after everyone's had a chance to receive their packages. When you post about the items, include a bit about how and why they were chosen, including how they met the answers of the Gift Questionnaire and the other guidelines (eg. something salty, something soft, something naughty, something nice - these are yet to be determined, but you get the idea.)

6. When you receive your gift, take some photos of the items in their new home--being used or displayed, and post that on your blog. As I said to Andrea in our planning communications: "The recipient should take a picture after receiving them, but it shouldn't be just a typical "opening the present shot". It should be something from the box in its new home, or in use, or being enjoyed. Even if it's a picture of someone's ass after eating some candy from the box." Ah, the possibilities.

We're hoping to get the final version of this posted within a week and participants signed up by the 26th of November, targeting a shipping date of December 15. Gift Opening Day would be New Year's Day, since that's a Winter Holiday we all have in common. Then you have maybe two weeks to wonder and guess the identity of your Secret Spoiler. About two weeks after that, you planning post should go up on the date still to be determined, so your Secret Santa and any other mysteries can be revealed, and the rest of the sucking up can commence.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Criticisms? Volunteer Gifters?

My thought is to remember that this is all about spoiling each other - even though we all have families and pets, let's try to keep it about spoiling your fellow blogger. We each give enough elsewhere, now it's time to have something just for us.

Does the fact that I might be your Secret Spoiler either inspire you or does it give you cause to fear this?

The Problem With Vintage Refrigerators...

My folks came for a visit yesterday, bringing Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey, before it was cooked and some part of it was consumed, weighed TWENTY SEVEN POUNDS. That is, two pounds less than Josephine.

There wasn't a platter in my house large enough to hold it (why would there ever be one?) and so we had to use one of my nice old tin trays.

This is it in the fridge last night, after dinner and after more than half of it was given to the in-laws to take home. I haven't enough containers to put it into, and who has time to dissect it anyway? And so, this is breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next three days, mainly because we have no room in our circa 1958 fridge for anything else. I'll just be sticking my head in for a bite now and then, or tearing a hunk off for the toddler. A handful in some soup, a leg stuck in my back pocket for a snack - you know, it'll disappear somehow.

Last night, in an email exchange with Wonder Woman (we're on a first name basis), I accidentally typed "I'm full of turkery." I have since decided that this is an excellent word that I'd like to introduce to the vernacular.

And so, if you see me in the next few days and ask how I am, I'll say "Turkery. I'm feeling just turkery, thanks."

Cold Days With Toddlers Suck

But if you tie the scarf tight enough, they stop whining and fall asleep pretty quickly.

Holiday Crafts With Marla

I had originally intended to post about our trip to Emergency on Monday - because I suspected that Josephine had swallowed a penny.

"A penny!? Ha!" you say. "When I was a kid, I stuffed them in every orfice and ate them along with dimes and nickels in a bowl like cereal. Consider it just a temporary loan, and enjoy scavenging in her diaper!"

And then, I would have the opportunity to trot out one of my two favourite "make you afraid of the world your baby lives in" facts. The first one is that pennies ain't what they used to be. Yes, here's more proof. In short, since 1982 American pennies (and Canadian pennies since 1997) have a higher percentage of Zinc in their makeup, which in conjunction with bodily acids, will cause bleeding ulcers and your kid might DIE. WHY ISN'T THIS INFORMATION HANDED OUT WHEN THEY GIVE YOU THE BABY? I only knew it because I looked up what to do when a child swallows something when Josie might or might not have swallowed something else a long time ago, when I was making yet another bid for the title of Worst Mother in the World. I had also just discussed it with Ann D. on Saturday, and so clearly I cursed myself.

By the way, the other "make you afraid of the world your baby lives in" fact is that swallowing liquid dishwasher soap is more deadly than swallowing Drano. I'll try to find that article, but in the meantime, don't let your kids near it.

So, I had a long and funny post in my head. But I'll spare you that in favour of this one, because this one guarantees me the WORST MOTHER IN THE WHOLE WORLD, BAR NONE title for all time.

By the way, the short version of the first ends with the advice to just pinch your baby hard so she cries soon after being shown to the waiting area, because otherwise you'll wait an hour and a half for the X-ray and your toddler will progress from "the having a fun adventure" stage to the melting into a red-faced puddle on the floor tantrum thrower" stage over the course of time, THEN they will rush you through, and then she won't sit still for the X-rays until she tires herself out from screaming and screaming and screaming and falls asleep sobbing, no matter how many toys or snacks you pack. In fact, I recommend escalating the tantrum before some kind strangers teach your daughter "the GREAT BIG GIANT SPIDER" to the tune of "the Itsy Bitsy Spider" or "the Eensy Weensy Spider" in an attempt to distract her. Even though she will be screaming and screaming and screaming, she will still learn it from them and want it exclusively, all the time, and will never want the regular spider song again. And then you will find out there is no penny, and you went through this for nothing, even though you saw it go in her mouth, heard the little cough-swallow, and she came up to you and said "I ate moneeeee".


On Sunday, I was thrilled to be able to go grocery shopping without the toddler in tow. It's always easier. In fact, I was downright giddy. I went to Bulk Barn, and was even inspired to buy all new spice jars and fresh spices. I needed to make my version of Emeril's Rustic Rub, which goes on pretty much everything in the house.

So, $60 worth of spices and jars later, I thought, what a nice project this would be to do with Josie. She could learn about spices, and help me count the measurements, and it would be adorable!

Last night I set up everything after dinner. Steve was out for the evening, and I had an hour to spend with her before bedtime.



I soon realized that this would be a messier project than I initially thought. Because of the toddler thing.



So I poured myself a wobbly pop, and decided to just go with the flow.



And we had fun, counting and mixing and talking about the spices and utensils.



And then I realized that after I made my big jar of rub and was about to transfer all of the other spices into my cute new little jars, that the jars I'd bought were really too small. Not only had I bought more spice than could fit in each jar, but each jar held so little that one pot of chili would pretty much empty it.

So I decided to just use up the rest of the spice to make cute little gift jars of rub. And then I looked down and around, and realized everything was a little out of control.



In fact, I decided to stop measuring and to simply dump it all in the bowl and sweep it off the table. The proportions aren't really important as long as it has good flavour.

My helper was only too happy to help. Toddlers love to help. Even if they aren't really helping, but are in fact, making a colossal mess that will later take about two hours to clean up because she will be sleeping and I can't really run the vacuum.



In fact, she was so proud and happy and excited, and kept saying "I helwp Mommee" (without stuttering, even), that I was congratulating myself on this wonderful learning experience and was really enjoying our quality together time.

I never once considered that a toddler, whose hands were covered in spices, might eventually put her finger in her mouth or touch her eye.



Or both.

And so, oh, I learned. I learned all right. Our learning experience ended with me trying to simultaneously hold her face under the faucet to rinse her eye and trying to force her to drink milk to get the taste out of her mouth.

Oh - did I forget to give the recipe? Well, you don't need it. I have nine cute little jars of it to give away. I'll provide the recipe if you like, but you should know that one of the main ingredients is cayenne pepper.

Speak up if you'd like me to send you a jar of "Teary Toddler Spice Rub". First come, first served.

The Whole Mom

I am so proud to have contributed to The Whole Mom.

Bravo, Andrea and Kim. I will happily offer to wrestle anyone in creamed corn should they attempt to challenge me for the title of their greatest admirer.

Blame it on Boo Boo?

Perhaps I mentioned we have a new kitty? Well, I'll get to that.

What we also have is a florid yeast infection in Josie's diaper - still. And did you know that the Canesten for foot fungal infections has the same ingredients as in the coochy one (and yet it is still not something I'm flashing around the drugstore checkout)? (Okay - Steve's not. I sent him for the refill.) On Sunday we attempted a family outing, only to turn around and head to the Children's Clinic for a walk-in appointment because the phrase "bum hurts" was being repeated incessantly. We knew that she was suffering a bit from the yeast problem, but all redness had gone away. Frequent diaper changes, alterations to our diets, baths and extra care had removed the worst of it. What could it be that was cause for such insistence?

I kept thinking UTI,that maybe she was saying it all the time because it felt like she had to "go". But no fever? Googling told me that well, it could happen. So we get to the walk-in clinic after travelling from the East end to the West end and back, and what does the doctor find in a very sensitive spot DESPITE Josephine's having had a bath and a clean diaper with cream and the utmost in care before we left just an hour before?

A corn kernel.

I'm having it gilded and mounted as a trophy for the Worst Mommy of the Year award. Who's next in line?

One would think that after removing said kernel, and doing a urine test that didn't indicate an infection was present would end it, but noooooo. Bum still hurts. Another trip to the doctor found nothing but more yeast - but next stop is specialist because bum still hurts every day. We try to get more information out of her, but at twenty months, she is still rather inarticulate. She points to the front, she can tell the difference between pee pee and poo poo she knows the difference between tummy hurts and bum hurts. It's not a cry for attention - it's just weird. It all looks normal, it all seems like it should be fine, but we still hear "bum hurts". Well, I can't wait to see the hits I'll be getting from this one. While we're talking potty talk, here's an image of our bathroom these days. We're introducing the concept that one is usually only in diapers for the first and last stages in life, and that her first stage is coming to a close as our last is drawing ever nearer. She's great on the broader aspects - the finer points not so much. Like, she gets that we use TP.



But training will not begin in earnest until she can pull her pants down herself - because otherwise, the onus is on me to make the call, and I have enough on my plate these days. When I look around and see just how toilets seem to be located so very inconveniently in these old buildings in Toronto, I'm willing to wait until she is VERY ready to train.

Josephine is growing in leaps and bounds in other areas though, and the best part is how she can now use words to tell us what she wants and needs. Whether it's "bum hurts" or "play nice baby song" (which is Neko Case's "No Need to Cry", for the record. And she met Neko at Capsule Music one day, and Ms. Case was charmed!) - life is easier because she can say "milwks, please" when pointing at the fridge, instead of writhing on the floor and occasionally standing up to grasp the handle and then falling down again whining when I offer her applesauce.

It's nice that she can tell us what's on her mind. Even if what's on her mind is rather banal. It's terribly cute, her remarkable grasp of the obvious and her efforts to impart it so very urgently. In her excitement to get the words out about something she's been working on, she'll make a lot of Tasmanian Devil noises, and then with great effort and pride will tell you something really obvious. Like, "ErrrwwhrrrrMOM MOM MOMEEE rrrwhrrreeuuwwwrrrDIS A PURSLE TOK!" Which, as her mom, I can translate as "Mother, this is a purple sock." To which I reply, "Yes. What a nice purple sock. It's on your right foot." Then, after checking that out just to be sure, in an escalating frenzy of inarticulate noises, she'll then add "mmmmmMOMMMEEEEE rrrwrrdapursletokzzzonnnnnnaaaaarrrrwwwhhhrrRRITE FOOT!" This happens ALL. DAY. LONG. Or, I should say, was happening until the day before yesterday. Because shortly after leaving the doctor's office, something happened happened for the first time. Then it happened all the next day. Then all day yesterday. And today, still going strong.

Stuttering.

Now, thanks to those wonderful folks at the Berkeley Parents Network and their formerly stuttering kids and their need to commiserate with each other, I know I really don't need to worry. This is normal. But I do worry, so I found this article too, and feel only marginally better. I don't know how long this will last, but the fact is that Josephine stutters in a way that's painful to listen to, and being patient and not attempting to intervene is really hard. She was coming along SO swimmingly, and still is - it just sounds awful that to get to the cute sentence pointing out the obvious we have to start with sometimes as many as fifteen Mom Mom Mom Mom Moms.It is also hard not to poke a little fun at it, after all - we've had this hanging on our corkboard in the kitchen for years:



Divine retribution? You make the call.

Steve rather jokingly blamed it on the cat. The kitty? Why yes, his name is Boo Boo. Yes, as in Boo Boo Kitty. Boo for short. Our friends in Texas will occasionally call someone "Boo" as an endearment, and we find that charming. It was close to Halloween when he came to us, so that also made it appropriate. Some dear friends have a kitty named Bubba that held Josie enthralled for months. Any black cat was dubbed "Tha BUBBA" to the extent that she would spend the entire time we went to Riverdale Farm on Tuesdays last summer looking for the black cat in the chicken barn, only to scream "THA BUBBAAAAAAH!" when she saw him.



It would probably be cruel to continue encouraging her to think that every black cat in the world is named Bubba, so Boo Boo seems/seemed like a fine addition to the cat name family in Josie's vocabulary. However, the repetitious nature of each name means that when she stutters now, it's more like our kitty's name is Buh Bah Boo Boo. And we sigh.

But, with no further adieu, here he is:



He is lovely. Now. He spent three days hiding under the kitchen sink cupboard and behind the dishwasher. Normal for a formerly feral cat, but no fun for those of us who actually wanted to have a nice kitty cat. At one point I ran the diswasher to try to get him to come out, and when I didn't hear him meow for two days after I thought I'd killed him. But I didn't, because you saw the picture. He was a gift from Grandma Joan who volunteers for Action Volunteers for Animals, and at seventy-six she feeds, rescues and works toward spaying or neutering feral cats every week. She's amazing. It was she that got him back out from hiding, and now he does all the proper kitty things that make us laugh and welcome him as a way of lightening our grief over the loss of Beauty.

He washes his face, and it is adorable:



He has the most lovely green eyes - peacock green around the irises, changing to lime and then they're amber before you can tell where one colour stops and one starts. His fur is truly black - not that so-brown-it's-black colour. There are a few stray white hairs - just like Beauty used to have. I look at that as a constant reminder of her, as if I needed one. He is as soft as sheared beaver (um, okay, I know I'll get yucky hits for that one too - but in my former career as the head of the Couture department at an auction house, I learned by direct comparison that sheared beaver is the softest fur next to chinchilla. And I know that's yucky from an animal lover's standpoint. And unfortunately I know that beavers duck and cover their heads when hunters go to club them. And my grandma used to have a sheared beaver coat, and I loved hugging her in it, and if live sheared beavers would just run around so I could pet them, I wouldn't have had to feel pelts to find out how soft they are.) If I pat him just behind his foreleg, it feels like Beauty's ears used to feel when she and I would cuddle on the sofa, and it's comforting. His claws are tiny and freaking sharp, but he doesn't use them often. He's very, very, VERY good at letting Josie hold him. Even when she holds him like Olivia the pig carries Edwin, her cat (couldn't find a good image), and he lets her.



In fact, Steve caught her with Boo Boo in a camel clutch the other day, and so we've realized we need to referee their little matches a little more closely.

At night, after everyone else is in bed, I sneak back downstairs and throw tinfoil balls for him and crinkle empty candy wrappers (that I've emptied) for him, because the sound is absolutely tantalizing to him. He has a little bent tail that I love to see him chase, and his raspy little meow sounds like the little creature in this video. He has the pinkest puckerhole I've ever seen on a cat, and often has three grains of litter stuck to it. That along with the rancid kitty farts means that if he were human, he'd be the guy coming out of the stall with TP hanging out the back of his pants and the bad odour wafting around him that Steve is always afraid he'll run into in the men's room. Because what would you say?



Anyway, Boo - he is just captivating. We had planned to get him even before Beauty passed, because we thought he'd be a good distraction for Josie. She loved hugging and laying near Beauty, and Beauty was so sore I wanted to distract Josie so that she wouldn't irritate her more. I can only be glad that he is here now regardless of our original intentions (we meant to use him as a shield only in the nicest way, you know). In fact, perhaps it's better that the old girl didn't have to suffer this rascally new interloper. The sound of her formerly sensible human companion saying "Get you mousie Boo Boo! Det him! Det 'im!" in my best talking-to-a-funny-kitty voice would have made her roll over and die anyway.

Now, it's time for me to get off the computer and get ready for work. I'm passing this on as a gift that works on two levels. First, for you moms, it's hilarious on an adult level. But for the wee kiddie - it gives me enough time to get dressed not only with my underwear on right side out and deodorant under BOTH arms - but both eyebrows get drawn on properly so I don't look perpetually surprised. The DVD is coming down the chimney this year! Imagine. Months of me trying to teach it for fun and exercise and as an important iconic cultural reference point, and she picks it up right away from the 'puter screen. Sigh.

Pffft...thbfft...tap tap tap...Is this thing on?

Lagging far behind everyone else in the blogosphere, I am posting the Good house's Halloween recap.

A very scary yeast infection made an appearance in Josie's diaper, so the morning was spent at the doctor's, so that we could be told to use an off-the-shelf lady product. In an act of remarkable maturity, I simply paid for the little tube and did not feel the need to attribute the reason for the purchase to my daughter. See? I am a grown up and I don’t have to care if the world thinks I have an itchy coochy.

We then had a walk around the Danforth area, and came home where she had a nice nap. That gave me time to put our pumpkins outside and decorate the porch. Thankfully, nature provided some of her own decoration:



Yes, real spider is still in residence. Did I tell you about real spider? If I didn't, and because I'm too lazy to check my own archives, it goes like this -

This giant spider lives in the flower basket on the porch, and spins a web from the light to the cast iron flower holding trough, and it is growing ever larger and scarier as this is the perfect place to ensnare a gazillion bugs who keep going towards the light. Aside from the fact that you can guess how I feel about spiders, it is a continual reminder of the differences between how mommies are and how daddies are. Mommies pick up their babies and sing the Itsy Bitsy Spider, and talk about how pretty the web is and promise to read Charlotte's Web to them later on. Daddies pick up ants off the porch, stun them and throw them into the web, explaining how the spider eats bugs. Mommy, who with Josephine passes the spider ten times each day, has to continually explain to said toddler that she is not the parent who does cool things like aiding and abetting the food chain.

So during her nap I put the pumpkins outside. Steve and I carved them Sunday night while Josie sat on the floor and ate cat food, because we are responsible parents who don't let our daughter play with knives yet:



"CAT FOOD"?!!!? you say. "Why, you must have a cat now!" you conclude. I'll get to that.

The all-time favourite pumpkin was Daddy's kitty pumpkin. Despite his many sketches and intentions to use power tools like the jigsaw and dremel, Steve sweetly passed on his usual Kiss or Social Distortion-inspired pumpkin themes and carved a kitty face for Josie. She hugged it and kissed it and talked to it like it was a mouse named George.



And it was very cool when lit:



She was excited, but not nearly impressed enough by Mommy's rendition of her favourite character Mona in pumpkin form:



And although the neigbours and trick or treaters liked my head wound pumpkin best, the family only had a marginal appreciation for it:



No - really - it was VERY cool. See - here it is with the flash on:



Boy, the porch needs painting. But we can't get a hold of the guy we want to do it.

Anyway, after her nap, I got Josie dressed up in her costume which was assembled from vintage pieces we've been collecting. Sadly, and to her father's extreme disappointment, the 1950's ACME cowboy boots we've had for years waiting for a little Josie to fit in them wouldn't go on - a combination of stiff leather and a stiff toddler. Her Gymboree cowboy boot slippers were a fine stand-in. So after dinner, because even cowgirls need to eat their pasta, Josie went out for a few treats. She carried the kitty purse I made for her out of a coffee can and daddy's old sweater, she carried her steer named Poke Poke, and she wore the hat Steve brought her back from Austin.







The neighbours were exceedingly generous. Some had purchased special treats for her like washable markers and cute notepads, feather topped pencils, Teddy Grahams, fruit roll-ups and other toddler-friendly stuff. Gawd, I love my neighbourhood. Some just stuffed fistfuls of regular candy into her bag, even though I offered full disclosure that I was going to confiscate all the candy and that it would most likely end up going right to my hips. Gawd, I love my neighbourhood. (Actually, I lied. It's all going.. I mean went... straight to my ass.)

She had to be persuaded to go up each walk, and would very faintly say "Trick or Treat" after much prompting, and then would loudly say "Thankyoomuch" after the treat was given and would march toward home instead of the next house. Stairs had to be sized up, attempted after freeing up her hands so she could use the railings like a big girl, and then she'd turn around and ask for her kitty purse and poke poke before speaking to the homeowner. When asked what she was (or when she was told what a cute cowboy she was), she'd reply, in a tone inferring they were utter and complete idiots deserving her harshest contempt, "Towdirl Dosie". Is it wrong to be proud that my daughter has mastered a disdainful tone? Because I find mine gets a lot of exercise. Four houses was enough. There was too much excitement going on at home.

Josephine was happiest shelling out candy for the big kids, and would ask for "More kids please." after they left. She made Steve laugh, because the kids were just itching with impatience, wanting to run from house to house to grab as much candy as possible, and there would be Josie, slowly and painstakingly and deliberately reaching for an Oh Henry! while they shifted from foot to foot and eyed the sour gummies and better candy bars. Okay, pretty much everything else we gave out was better than the Oh Henries, but we were happy to be rid of them because we hate them too. Besides, it was getting late and the kids were getting bigger and bigger and the costumes more and more lackadaisical. I mean, at one point, I looked up at a teenager and said, "What are you going as? A loser?". Okay, I didn't say that out loud. I'm a parent now, and I know how fragile kids are, especially sugar fuelled tweens who are already carrying some guilt about being physically too big for Halloween despite having the brains of eight year olds. But when I asked what he was in my best sitcom housewifely mom voice, as he was dressed in a shirt and tie and carrying a hockey stick and I was truly mystified, he informed me in his best comic book store nerd voice that he was a hockey player. They're often required to wear suits and ties to and from games, you know. "OH. Here's an Oh Henry." was my response to that one. I still think it's a lame costume.



For the record, the best costume award this year goes to Steve. He pinned a fuzzy Easter chick decoration to his sweater and went as a "chick magnet"! Hahahaha!

So, afterwards Josie was happy to ride her bouncy horse and burn off some of the excitement - and was feeling brave enough to "Look! No Hands!", which gives me my usual daily 'how is she nearly going to hurt herself and cry today' scare:



The next day I found juice-swollen kibble inside the Kitty pumpkin, because apparently toddlers can't tell real animals from fake animals. Steve read that they think anything with a face is alive. I have to agree, because she talks to the plastic spider with the same enthusiasm as she does to the kitty.

The kitty! The kitty? Well, I've got to get going. I guess I'll have to tell you about the kitty in the next post.