Household Hints

It is a good idea to always pack a little blanket, even in summertime, in case you want to have an impromptu picnic on some lovely green grass in the park.

Especially if you are pasty-skinned and easily marked like me. Because twenty minutes later, you will be breezing across the park, feeling all kicky and fresh, having since had a few sparkling conversations with other folks enjoying the fine day, and then you might look down to see if your Espadrille laces need adjusting, and realize you look like you've been stricken with the plague.

Household Pests

M: (Tidying up around the house) Heh heh heh...the animals around this house are out of control.



M: Yup, we might have to call an exterminator. The pig finger puppet is getting all Sylvia Plath in the oven.



M: Definitely calling an exterminator.

Wherein I End With A Poem I Used To Think Was Maudlin.

*Amy, over at Binkytown was more than kind to nominate me for a Perfect Post award. Thank you. Although sometimes one might think I get regular chatty serum injections, right now, it's hard to say exactly how much this means to me. I am grateful. That goes for Her Bad Mother, as well, who also considered a post I've since deleted "Perfect" as well - which it was, in a sense because it served its purpose - but I couldn't have had this one without that one.






“The glory of gardening: hands in the dirt, head in the sun, heart with nature. To nurture a garden is to feed not just on the body, but the soul.”
(Alfred Austin)





I tend to my garden at night, not in the sun, mainly because I have a two-year old. One who tends to bolt, and given the span of a sidewalk, it is simply not an aggravation I ever want to indulge in with her - that's what the back yard is for. The front is mine. It is all hot sun or the shadow of our house. I've planted it carefully, so that it doesn't need much help from me, but the difference between lush and overgrown means that every couple of weeks I need to get my hands dirty.

After Josephine is sleeping and Steve is busy elsewhere, I'll go out at dusk, and tackle it. It's not so hot then, and the delineation between sunshine and shadow isn't as stark.



Last night, after Steve helped me with a few things, he left me with a comment to the effect that he knew this was where I found peace. "Zen" was the word he used, in the sense that I meditate when I garden. It's true. But I also open up to the people that pass by instead of staying in my head - it's easier to say "hello" or "good night" in the dark; to catch fragments of conversations from late-night walkers or people using the park across the street, or to indulge in patting a dog when people aren't in hurry. Zen meditation is done with others, in order to avoid personal vanity, correct?

Sounds are louder at night, and I see the blue flicker of the lights from televisions up and down the street through the townhouse windowpanes and I feel at once a part of my street and alone with my thoughts.

It's a fine time for thinking, and now that I CAN think, without the thoughts racketing around in a cacophony of stress, my ruminations are restful and singular. They come and stay, then get filed away, instead of ending up in a panicked pile.

I looked over my garden last night, and it took on a new shape and it has a new future. My thoughts were both practical and ethereal.





“Beyond its practical aspects, gardening - be it of the soil or soul - can lead us on a philosophical and spiritual exploration that is nothing less than a journey into the depths of our own sacredness and the sacredness of all beings.”
(Christopher Forrest McDowell)





First, the Kale and Brussels Sprouts, which were charming and quirky a month ago, had become hideously overgrown, gargantuan, pale sprouty things - heavy enough to fall over. They had to go.

(Know when to let go of something that used to work and doesn't any more. Or, as a friend told me recently, "When the horse is dead, dismount.")




The Snow on the Mountain has become very invasive, and I like that. It hides a lot of sins, and saves me a lot of work. It also hid a small shrub and a fifteen-dollar Coleus, which had to be moved. It also means I've had to let the three Spireas and the Roseglow Barberry bushes grow taller if I don't want to trim it shorter and keep it from flowering. The Flowering Crabapple tree will need pruning next spring so that it will have a prettier shape and more graceful spread over it all.

(Go with what works. Change what I can change, and let other things adapt on their own. Learn to do something new, and anticipate challenges. Let things take more shape before making decisions.)


I planted a new Cedar shrub in an empty space, moved things around a bit, pulled some weeds until it was too dark to tell the difference, I thought about what was working, and about the things to do when next I had the chance. The Golden Creeping Jenny is working beautifully around all the edges. I should get some more and fill in a few more spots. The colours are pleasing - all variegated greens and golds, greens and whites, and touches of pinks and fuchsias. It's all perennial - and everything is there because I find it beautiful, or because it has meaning. It was nice to find the Lavender doing well, and to think of the friend I planted it to honour. Both the Lavender and the Thyme smell different at night. Homey's grave is there, and the Burning Bush above it is waiting for Autumn to show its glory.

(Try something new. Stop and think a bit - but not too much. Know what you like. Low-maintenance is really, really working for me. Things have to have meaning for me, or I find them useless and frustrating. Remember those who care about you. Remember those who are gone, and that life is short. We all have dormant and showy periods in our lives.)

And although I know it's not a great practice to water at night, I pulled out the hose and soaked the roots of the new shrub and the plants I'd moved. All of the "bones" got a good drink too, the Boxwood and the Euonymous and the Yew. I didn't water the Day Lilies - they are taller than I am and can stand a little neglect. They are thriving despite me, those pesty things. I swept and hosed off the walk, pulled some weeds out of the crevices in the slate walkway (which needs some Thyme between the cracks) and weeded the crushed brick walkway between the beds. That will need some smoother river stone, as it hurts my feet to walk on barefoot; but I'll have to wait for a day when I feel like cleaning the brick out, laying weedcloth and then lugging heavy bags of stone to cover it again. I felt the thrill of accomplishment, and pride for my home. You see, my neighbours have lovely, lovely well-maintained front yards (and grown children and more money than we have) - but might I say (somewhat bashfully, mixed with pride), that while they are indeed very beautiful homes and gardens - people have stopped to tell me they LOVE my garden. Once I was told "They have plants. You have a garden."

(Do what you can when you can. Take care of what nourishes you. Leave some things to themselves, especially if they're fine without you. A little basic maintenance once in a while is better then having to do a huge clean up when you can least afford to. If something is painful, get it out of your life - but do a good job of it or you may make a bigger mess. Apportion your energy, and keep the greater reward in mind. Take pride where pride is due. Recognize different kinds of beauty in others and others will recognize your own unique beauty.)



I wound the hose carefully and put it away. We've been through several hoses over the years, always looking for one that we really enjoy using, and this latest incarnation isn't any better than any of the others. They're always heavy and long enough to reach the front and back. Despite manufacturers' promises of improvement, they all have their quirks. So what if this one doesn't kink - it's stiff.

(Some things don't need to be better - I need to adjust my attitude about them instead. Too many easy things can actually make the harder things seem harder. The extra weight is good exercise. It takes patience to work out the knots. If I put it back properly, it's easier to use when next I need it. It works - what more do I need it to do?)


Last night, despite the extra work and feeling of satisfaction, I didn't sleep any better than I usually do - but at least my head was full of happy thoughts. A good friend with similar anxieties told me something that helps me feel better about what I'm experiencing - that the meds don't help with the insomnia, they just keep the anxious thoughts at bay. Insomnia is a part of her, as it is a part of me. That hasn't changed.

(It is a relief to know that I am not a new person - just an improved person.)


***************************************************


This morning, Josephine and I had a lovely time in the back yard. I could enjoy it, because the duty to the front yard wasn't nagging at me. How proud I was, that I had given myself that luxury - in the sense of the work last night, and the ability to sit quietly and enjoy her because I wasn't running a thousand other things through my head.

We pulled out the hose again for her kiddie pool, and while she put the water everywhere but inside it. I puttered around the back yard a bit and enjoyed the first morning of Summer.





On the hot and bright side in the mornings, the neighbours' Clematis is winding itself around our side of the fence too.

(It's nice to have good neighbours. It's even nicer than having good relatives.)




Buddha is developing a nice patina, hidden under his Cedar bush and behind the "Elvis Lives" Hosta. He is beautiful, and I am happy that he lives in my garden even though I am not a Buddhist. He was a gift from my cousin, who didn't want him in her garden (he had been in the garden of the house she bought, along with two pagodas, one large and one small). Boo Boo often hides under the Cedars with them. Perhaps he'll be a good influence on Boo Boo.

(One man's trash is another man's treasure. Boo Boo is better not seen and not heard.)





Sadly, the raccoons broke the Elvis that had been mysteriously deposited on our front lawn one night. I'd thought about making something with the remains, but I really don't need another project. I'm behind in a few as it is. I'm never going to fill those baskets - I've had them for three years and just haven't. That garbage-picked little ride-on toy was just what I needed to thwart a tantrum and get Josie home happily one day - but it's not something I want to have around forever. It has an aged charm, but it's not great to actually ride on and I don't really need another quirky decorative plant holder that tempts Josephine too much.


(Know your limits. De-clutter not just stuff, but misplaced and imagined obligations. Use what is put in your path, but know you don't have to carry things around forever. Sometimes one man's junk is just one man's junk. Don't let your own quirks become obstacles for others to overcome.)





The difference between lush and overgrown is mirrored in the difference between patina and weather-beaten. Behind my patinated garden chairs peeks the only unpicked rose on my rosebush. Thankfully Pansies are plentiful and regenerate, because my Snapdragons are bare and my Petunias are irresistible for plucking (they also fade too quickly and have yucky, sticky stems). But next year, or even the year after, the vintage garden furniture will transcend shabby chic and I'll have decisions to make about how to restore it. I'll think of that another day. I never seem to want brand new things, but I'm sad that old things can't last forever.) And what is the point of having flowers, if not to bring them to friends?



(In things, as in persons, patinated is good - it's charming and has character and speaks of hidden stories. Weather-beaten is not so good. It speaks of neglect and carelessness. Aim for patina, but understand we all become weather-beaten and might need to restore ourselves. The best flowers, as with people, can stand a little more wear and will come back again and again. Enjoy things as they are and while you have them. Share. Trying to stop a toddler from picking a flower is like trying to get a puppy off a pork chop.)






Josephine decided that pouring four buckets of water in her sandbox and jumping in the sludge was more fun than playing in the pool. I have to remember that technically, they are her toys to enjoy as she wants to. The purpose of these mornings at home is to make the most of what can be the best part of our day. Thankfully, it's a little easier to let go of the need to control messes these days. She is beautiful in her absorption and innovation; and I love that she isn't tethered by a false need for neatness when playing.

(Fun is when two people are enjoying something. There is no such thing as being neat with sand.)



And then it was time to get ready for work. The clumpy, wet sand fell out of her little bum crack in a wedge shape. It was a good thing that we had decided to take up the area rugs and live with bare floors for the summer, because the sand in those little swim shoes would have sunk her in the pool like cement shoes on a stool pigeon.

(There is nothing cuter than a ruffley-bottomed swim suit. On a little girl. Only on a little girl.)




As we traveled our front walk, I noticed my first white Coneflower has bloomed. And soon my Snowball Hydrangeas will too.

(Try to give yourself things to look forward to. Your garden is ever-changing, as is your self.)



And because I am tending my gardens, both inner and outer, my daughter is blooming too. And so we will enjoy a summer filled with wet hair and sandy skin, and the sound of our legs unsucking themselves from the oilcloth cushions on the glider in our back yard. The front garden is taking care of itself. Goodbye, misplaced anxieties. I feel better and don't need to hang onto them any longer. Out with the Brussels Sprouts, empty flower baskets and broken King you go.







“After awhile you learn the subtle difference

between holding a hand and chaining a soul.

And you learn that love doesn't mean security,

And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts

And presents aren't promises.

And you begin to accept your defeats with you head up and your eyes open.

With the grace of maturity, not the grief of a child.

And you learn to build all your roads on

Today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans,

And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.

After awhile you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,

Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

And you learn that you really can endure...

That you really are strong

And that you really do have worth.

And you learn and learn and learn ....

With every goodbye you learn.”

(Veronica A. Shoffstall)

Dance! I'm a Kitty Cat. And I Dance Dance Dance and I Dance Dance Dance.

J: Boobie, do yoo want to haves a tea partee? I haves Pounces for yoo! I cutted them with a knife! Want tsum cream?













J: Now it is a dance parteee!














“Sometimes one pays most for the things one gets for nothing.”
(Albert Einstein)

The Thing With Toddlers and Garden Flowers...

....is that you don't so much need vases as much as shallow bowls. It's pretty sweet; but really, stems would be nice.

File Under: Things That Don't Happen In Other People's Homes

I don't think other people stagger home from a girls' night out, grope for a washcloth to wipe the mascara off so they don't wake up with raccoon eyes and scare the toddler (again) and find "Mr. Tut" waiting up for them.

.


And, well, you know...Boo Boo.


B: What? (two long, slow blinks) What was that? (looks down) Really? That's your brand new $160 matelassé bedspread? Wow. You're right. It most certainly is gorgeous. I love Pima cotton. What? Hmmmm...yesssss. Look at all of those lines and lines of thread. Mmm-hmmm. Once again, you're absolutely right. My claws COULD pick at those threads and ruin it in no time. And did I hear you correctly when you said you would like for me to get off it? Hahahahahahaaha!

A Roundabout Way Of Asking - Do I Stink?

In Josephine's first few months, if you had asked me what I thought about the difference between having a child in my thirties versus having one in my twenties was, I'd have said patience. That in my twenties, I lacked the ability to see beyond the moment and didn't know how to pace myself for the long haul - so I was glad that I'd learned enough by the time I became pregnant to know that I could persevere. And I'd also learned what was important in my life and what I wanted out of it, and had taken steps to effect those choices, so I'd assumed the responsibility instead of having it thrust upon me. And then, when it all came true, to find that I was sorely lacking in the ability to do something as simple as realize that life is comprised of moments, and that I couldn't see my way through some of them - frightening.

I also learned that I didn't have as much patience as I thought I had. I'd assumed my reserves were endless - that the love for my sweet baby, my beautiful daughter, the result of all that effort, the most innocent, unblemished thing ever, would fill in those gaps and holes when my resilience was stretched thin and my nerves were frayed. It wasn't that I didn't have the capacity for seeing myself through some hairy scenarios - it was that I'd have to have patience enough to prevent them, see them through if they were inevitable, and then clean up after them - for the whole family as well as myself - and finding that I lacked the mettle? Heartbreaking, for all of us.

And so, the bitter taste of a pill in the back of my throat is better than the flavour of guilt after the words have crossed my tongue. And the relief is immediate. Because I never wanted to talk to my child in that tired, rejecting voice I'd found myself using too often. To have come too close to the line between discipline and punishment alarmed me. To speak to a child through clenched teeth in a strangled tone scared me as much as her. Oh, I understand that I don't have to be perfect - my version of perfection or anyone else's. But I do know that my days were becoming fraught with tension, and that it was becoming harder and harder to revive my spirit, and fortitude wasn't forthcoming.

And so, I'm not finding patience in the form of a pill - but I am finding some of the irritability assuaged.

It is only now that I find it droll that the same screaming outbursts that exacerbated the problem provided the inspiration to seek relief for it.

Does anyone ever remember that another meaning of inspire is "to breathe in"?

And speaking of, I am wondering - does Effexor make body odour worse? Because I keep thinking I smell different. (lifts up arm and sniffs furtively)

Still Party Pooping.

J: "Heeah Boo Boo. Does oo want tsum Pockee?"

B: "Interesting. Perhaps I will indeed partake of some."

M: "Or perhaps you'd like to ingest some?"

B: "I might even devour some. Or tuck into it. See? Thesauruses are fun."





M: "Boo Boo, please eat the Pocky, not the toddler."

B: "Fine. Party Pooper."

M: "Calling me anything having to do with pooper is rich, coming from you."

B: "Yeah, I'm really into causing ironic amusement or indignation these days."

M: "Whenever weren't you?"





B: "Can't talk. Eating Pocky. Or rather, consuming some, person who throws gloom over social enjoyment."

M: "Whatever, Definition-Boy. The meds? They are working. You are not making me crazier! They're good!"

Seasick. See? Sick.

I wrote this to one friend the other day, and then copied it to a few others. I mean, if I can't come up with a cheap Boo Boo post, I certainly can't waste a perfectly good (and rather brief, for me) explanation of where my head's at:


“It’s like I’m underwater, and that’s not so annoying – I could deal with that if I were just plain underwater, like in a lake or an ocean. Everything would be in slo-mo and kind of dreamy and I could just adapt to life that way. “Hey! I live underwater, and it’s cool! That’s just the way I am now!”

But it’s more like that I’m underwater in my mother’s living room with her TV on, and it’s a little too loud and tuned into some kind of annoying, blathering show; and it’s being in there and not being able to turn that TV off that’s making me crazy. It’s like “’Kay, I can deal with this underwater life, but not here. Can I move somewhere else and be underwater there in peace and quiet, please? No? Okay, well, I’ll make the best of it.”

And then Josie will have a tantrum or something, and it will send these waves and undercurrents around that room, and then the TV noise and light will distort and all kinds of nasty shit will float around in that underwater room with me because it’s been disturbed. There’ll be my mom’s dirty knee-high nylons that are always under the couch, the toenail clippers that live on the side table, the picture of the cousin who sold them a lemon of a car that they will not take down in case a family member comes over and sees that they did, even though that family member hasn’t been there in almost a year...all floating around and muddying up my environment that I’d worked so hard to adapt to even though it was sucking and I didn’t want to be there. And so I’ll be like “Okay, I was hating this enough as it was, but now it’s become unbearable. Everybody, everything, get out of my water. I can’t deal with being underwater and then all your freaky business on top of it. Because my watery room sucked, but at least it was mine and I was dealing with it; but now I need to try to get out of here before it happens again.”

So um, if I print out the above bit and hand it to my doctor, do you think she’ll get it? Would that make me certifiable? “



It means that I am the sort of person who answers my doctor's question "How often do you cry?" with crying.

So, the good news is that last night, instead of giving up a night's sleep re-playing fights and scenarios and worries in my head, I lay there and felt nauseous - my least favourite side effect. This also means the end of breastfeeding, without a proper goodbye. Not that I drink a lot, but um, I have a brand new-bottle of W.L. Weller's 10 year old bourbon sitting on the bar and a couple of girls' nights out planned - and alcohol is not recommended in conjunction with mother's little helpers.

However, I hope I no longer will be the kind of person who spends hours researching the fecal content in the average load of laundry or parasites you can get from running around barefoot at Riverdale Farm, and then sharing that information on a girls' night out. And I hope I will no longer attack thoughtless men at parties who suggest that I should have another child because "somehow you find the reserves to do it" and "they take care of each other" by screaming "That's a lie, it's your wife that took care of both of them and I have exhausted my reserves and am going to the doctor for meds tomorrow because parenting a two-year old is kicking my ass!" - not knowing that his wife died last year.

Well, I might have said that even if I weren't swimming through a shitstorm these days. What I'm hoping for is me, only better - but I'll settle for me, less unhinged.

Always Got Time For A Candy Swap

Andrea, over at A Peek Inside The Fish Bowl had a great idea:

*Candy Swap 2006


Can I say, I like how it says "2006"? Like it will be an annual thing?!

So I am taking a vacation from my blogging vacation (and my nervous breakdown) to answer:


The Questionnaire

1) When I was a kid, Halloween was all about:
a) collecting as much candy as I could
b) collecting candy to eat as I go
c) sharing with my siblings
d) Who cares about candy? I was too busy egging my teacher's car.
e) Halloween was forbidden in my house and I've never gotten over it. Bring it on!

...f) A few heartbeats of breathless independence - for that short dash up a driveway, anonymous in a costume, but a costume that I'd chosen as an extension of my inner self that let me escape for those few moments just steps away from a parent. Marla, you seven-year old gypsy in a plastic mask - if only you could have run in a pack with your pirate and hobo selves from other years - think of all the giddy, heady fun you could all have had because you were with the best friends ever - your own evolving imagination.

What? It's about candy? Oh...um...I really liked those mallow cups - like a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, but with liquidy marshmallow coconutty stuff inside. I'd try to get as many of those as I could, then trade other stuff for more. I never knew what to do with the wax lips and stuff.

What?! Choose one? Um...A. So that I could get those mallow cups. MALLOW CUPS.




2) What is more important to you: quality, or quantity?

Well, it's not the size, it's what you do with it, right?

What? It's about candy?

Well, for one example, a smidge of Nutella on its own is gone in a flash. But swirled through some ice cream? A poem. Why do they stress the bread so much on the website? Try it on a Kit Kat! On a banana! A rice cake! An arrowroot biscuit! A Twix! On Pocky! So, you got a plain Hershey's bar? A bit of all right, I guess. But as part of a S'more? Poetry. Or, broken and stuffed in a banana with some marshmallow fluff and baked for a while? A song. And then, add Nutella? (Shudders in ecstasy) So, I could take the least, worst candy and make it something amazing. If it's quality, accenting it with the right wine or liquor or coffee just brings it to operatic heights.

What? Answer the question?

Um...quantity. It expands my options. I can always "pimp it".

3) If you were on a desert island (haha, I wrote "dessert island" but that would be a totally different question now wouldn't it?) and could only have one sweet treat, which would it be?

Nutella. Because its consistency, it is so silken and lovely. It is hazelnutty, yet chocolatey. It's good for you! It takes no effort to chew or melt it in my mouth. Maximum reward, minimum effort people. It spreads on things - perhaps a coconut, or even a plantain. Or, perhaps, a cabana boy shipwrecked along with me. Or, you know, my husband. Fruit, fish, fingers - whatever could be dipped in it. Heated a little, very very gently, it is like hot fudge. It is beautiful stuff. What? It's not candy?

4) You arrive at "Dessert Island" – where you discover a river of pudding flowing freely through a swamp of Cool Whip. No one is watching. What do you do?

Trace it to the delta, assume a recumbent position, and attempt to direct its course directly into my mouth. Maximum result, minimum effort, that's all I'm saying.

Have we discussed flavour? Because I'd like to propose Nutella flavoured pudding.

And, can I get a genuine whipped cream upgrade on that fantasy? I'd trade the possible cabana boy on the dessert island for it.

4) Sweet, sour, or savoury?

Sweeeeet. I eat enough sour things by accident, why do that to myself on purpose?


5) Sex or chocolate?

Are you nuts? I am the parent of a two-year old. Sex or chocolate? Hahahaha. One must give me chocolate in order to have sex. There is no "or". Fools.

6) What kind of candy, if any, would you turn down if someone offered?

Candy in flavours that are not candy flavours, or in flavours that are not identifiable as anything other than "candy". Lavender. Tequila suckers with worms. Circus peanuts, which are not peanutty at all. There need not be innovations in candy flavours people. Everyone knows what tastes good. Do not re-invent the wheel. Gild the wheel maybe, make the wheel bigger or drive it through some Nutella - but please do not make jokes with candy. It's supposed to be a treat - not a test. So that also goes for stuff you have to work at. Tootsie Roll suckers? What a pain. Just give me the damn Tootsie Roll, it's bad enough that I have to unwrap it. And then chew it. Screw chewing. There's that maximum reward, minimal effort thing once again. And you know what else? Those little candy corns and their freakishly similar tasting pumpkin-form things, as well as any other Easter or Christmas version of that nastiness. Take your putrid circus peanut friends and get out of town - you taste like nothing I could ever name.

And while any other flavour of licorice is more than fine - black licorice and its cohort anise? I'd rather shave my tongue with a cheese grater.


7) You're at the grocery store, you're children/husband/pets have been The.Worst.Ever. They're throwing cans at each other, tripping little old ladies, taking bites out of the produce and putting them back in the bins, and piercing the milk bags with diaper pins. You feel yourself getting woozy. That vein in your forehead is throbbing. You need an immediate sugar kick before you do something crazy. What do you reach for?

My friend Nutella. Are you sure it's not candy?

8) What are your feelings regarding Thrills gum, ribbon candy, scotch mints, and other "grandma candies"?

Fech. Phooey. And other curses that only grandmas in musty smelling books use. Balderdash. Bunkam. Tommyrot. And that goes for those candy coated wedding favour Jordan/Dragee almonds too. Hogwash and tripe, those things. Also, Junior Mints. More piffle, poppycock, and hooey, Sonny-boy. Go listen to your bebop music on your Victrola and don't bother pestering yer granny for sweets. She's busy tatting.

9) How adventurous are you? Do spicy dried mealworms or candy-coated crickets give you the willies, or are you willing to try anything once?

Why waste time trying something that might totally suck when there is a lovely jar of guaranteed good-tasting Nutella right there on the shelf? What? It's in the peanut butter section because it's not candy?

9) Do you have dentures or other dental issues? Do you have a good dental plan?

Happily no, probably yes, and sadly, no. But I'll take my chances.


Any other info you want to share, I suggest you spill it. :)

Um, I really like Nutella. I'm not saying you have to get me Nutella, but it's that...that...texture. I'm all about texture and mouth feel. What? It's about candy? Nutella isn't technically candy?




Oh. Well then. I guess your work is cut out for you, Hillary .

Weekend Update: Careful! It Goes From Happy To Bummer it No Time!

This past weekend we went to visit the folks in Buffalo, ostensibly to go to my cousin's baby shower - but really, an excuse to hit a few estate sales in between other obligations. So another metal chair followed us home (okay, to my parents' basement because it was painted together and didn't fit in the trunk), and an assortment of our usual favourite types of "treasures" followed us home:

Can't resist vintage aprons. At least, not at $3 for four. Scarbie and Crabby will tell you I really do wear aprons around the house.



And one of the best things that ever happened to me:

I found one of my favourite style of suitcases - a plaid canvas one (they weigh next to nothing, but have good structure and are darn cute. The small size like this one is perfect for Josie's things for a weekend getaway. When I opened it - a vintage bathing suit in a cute vintage plastic bag meant for it. They just GAVE it to me! A great vintage travelog (graphically pleasing) and another cute straw purse.



Another cute straw purse? Another you say? Why yes. Because I found a terribly cute straw purse.


I don't think you're ready for how cute this purse is.


I mean it.


Are you ready?




* beam of light comes down and choir sings *





They don't come much cuter.


Then the lovely napkins might seem anticlimactic:



But I really like them, and will use them.

And yes, you did see some more quality reading material:




Really, Phyllis Diller's Household Tips is quite engaging, if you like being pummeled in the eyes by about a thousand one-liners, one right after the other. All of that? $35. All of it. Including the chair.

Then, shopping for a few more essentials, like Rolling Rock Beer and:



And bourbon. Look! Steve has spotted the bourbon aisle! Beeline noise!



And I found some cute summer shoes:



Wow! It looks like all we did was shop, in one form or another. It felt that way to some people. Like, maybe Steve, who maybe shouldn't be allowed to doodle while waiting for my parents to arrive, late for my father's birthday dinner at TGIFriday's:

His version:


I mean, I thought I was doing well. That maybe he was being just a little impatient:

My version:


But, I did spend a lot of time at Babies R Expensive buying gifts for my cousin. And I couldn't resist buying this adorable pillow for Josie's bed. Because, you know, toddlers really care about pillows. And I was mired in a sea of pink and crisp and fluffly and ruffly and I really would make this for Josie myself if I could (and it was WAY marked down):



And then on Sunday, Steve built Josie's classic red Radio Flyer tricycle (on sale at Target!) while my mom and I went to my cousin's baby shower:




She um...is getting the hang of pedaling and is mainly just crawling around on it while it sits in our living room. It seems nobody around here really wants her to learn to ride it, because that would entail patience and work and possibly pain and making decisions about bike helmets. So it's a good thing the bike's pretty cute just sitting there on display.

The shower was held at my aunt's truly magnificent house. Here is about a quarter of it:



The kind of house that has chandeliers like this:



It is a matter of pride to her that this chandelier takes two people two and a half hours to clean. I've been there while she and my mother do it. You take each crystal drippy thing off, dip it in sudsy ammonia and water, dry it and hang it back. Unbefuckinglievable.

I just heard the house is up for sale. It is huge for two people. They bought it when I was about six, and I spent a lot of time there. Wonderful pool, great back and side yards. When I was a teenager, she offered me a chance to live in the apartment above the garage, but I didn't want to be that constrained. They are very Republican, as you might guess. She's spent years decorating it and then doing it again and then again. One of the latest incarnations was when she met a lady who paints, and well, it went a bit crazy. Here's the downstairs bathroom:



The little sign on the back of the toilet says "Please don't water the flowers". Hahahahaha! Rich white people humour!


My cousin's haul was incredible:



(That's our gift in front, with the pink bear thing.) It took hours to open everything. It was beautiful, and it also made me sad. My mom was sitting there, hands clasped, looking longingly at the flurry of pink and girly and fluffy things. She would have like to buy all that for us, but we wouldn't have it for Josie. Our home is small, we didn't and don't need twenty (I shit you not) Pottery Barn baby blankets, and we tried to stay a little more gender neutral because we weren't a hundred percent sure Josie was Josie and not Hank. Plus, you know - we're urban and funky and edgy and so when Josie wants to rebel against us as a teenager THEN she can go and buy a pink New York Yankees tracksuit and baseball cap and wear it to a Britney Spears show to embarrass us.

And so, my mom nearly wept when the grand finale came out. From a Moses basket, my cousin pulled out a clothesline, and pulled and pulled. Across the room, about thirty feet in length, were strung baby girl clothes galore. The girliest, the most useless, the fussiest. My aunt had indulged herself and the baby to be by buying a ton of outfits (including said track suit), and it truly was a cute sight. The oohs and ahhs are still ringing in my ears. The spoilage, oh how wicked and yet enchanting. And I was the one who felt rotten.




I tried not to feel bad about how my mom and I don't get along like my Aunt and cousin do. They actually like each other. They have similar tastes in so many things. They are both hugely conscienceless consumers for one thing (meow!). Oh sure, my Aunt got a couple of dirty looks from her daughter when she had the nerve to pass around some pictures of their latest trip to their condo in Florida during the interminable present opening - but they weren't like my mom and me - each perched awkwardly on one end the piano bench, trying not to rub each other the wrong way physically or emotionally. The differences between us were really highlighted on Sunday. She mourned what we didn't want, and I was grateful for what we didn't need.

I'd ignored my mother's request to take her credit card and buy myself a nice pantsuit. I wore a dress I liked and carried my cute new $5 purse from the Estate sale. I felt cute when I left the house, and again - would you LOOK at that purse!



But I don't like the way I felt inside.

Having Josephine is the best thing that ever happened to me - but the worst thing that has happened to me and my mother.

She can't enjoy her grand-daughter the way she wants to - and I can't let her if I want to be a good mother to Josephine.