A Potpourri of Musings From Inside My Fishbowl

I'm in the top three. Should I be proud, or dismayed?


Found this today when I was making vacation recommendations to a friend. Is it any surprise that I love that place? Been there twice.


And I just got a lovely package from Andrea, of A Peek Inside The Fish Bowl, giving me more reasons to adore her! Also, because in a wonderful example of synchronicity, she posted about Intestine Boy today! It's EERIE.














She chose some awesome gifties. I tore them all open, and immediately had to go through all of the cards to find my favourites. And I had to wrestle the chick (and I want to know more about that gorgeous chick) away from Josie, and I had to read her the vegetable stories right away. One of my favourites? Bing. It is a really thoughtful assortment - it shows me that she saw into who Josie and I are, and what we love - things for our hair, charmingly illustrated things, things to do together, and my first artist trading card - inpiration for me to make more, I think. Andrea's gift, as well as her self, exhude charm, which is a quality I find sadly lacking in today's world. It's one of the reasons I like quirky vintage things, and the quirky people that like them too.

Andrea, was kind enough to do a meme for me. I'd been tagged for the Fives by Nancy and the Fridge by Sharon, but was feeling uninspired. So when the Fish family visited the other week, I asked if Andea'd do the Fives Meme instead of me. Now that she has, I can riff on it, so that makes it more fun for me! It's always interesting to find out what others see, because apparently, I worry about all of the wrong things.


The Fridge Meme: The Picture:





And I asked her to do the Fives Meme for me, which seems tangential to the Fridge Meme. Her results are here, but I must elaborate:


Five things in Marla's fridge:

She could have said: frost, slime, crumbs and boring food. I am grateful. And I like Miracle Whip - it's tangy. Every day in fourth grade, I had a Miracle Whip, Swiss cheese and Wonder Bread sandwich. With mayo instead, it would be a boring mushy sandwich. Miracle Whip adds the ZIP. I would eat one right now if I had one.

Five things in Marla's closet:

The rolls of toilet paper are because of a particular incident in my past. And the tall black boots? They are leftover from a "Naughty Santa's Helper" costume from one of the Country Sundays at the Cadillac Lounge that Steve used to produce - hmmm, that one was about four years ago. They were from the porno shoe store at Gerrard Square, a buy-one-pair-get-two pair-free-deal. Thankfully, said costume wasn't in that closet too, or I'd have been pressed for an instant explanation, I'm sure. Or she wouldn't have said anything and would forever wonder, which would be worse. And yet, I can't get rid of either of those items. What does that say?

Five things in Marla's car:

Yes, it is a boring car. But (sigh) it's paid for, and reliable, which allows me to have other interesting things elsewhere in my life. The best thing about it? Used to be the back seat folded down so we could fit everything from Steve's stand-up bass to fantastic estate sale finds in there. Now with the car seat? It doesn't fold down any more, and the only benefit is that it's ugly and empty which works for theft-prevention. The vomit stains are oxy-proof. Any advice for getting barf stains off of child-seat restraining belts? The heat from the closed car seems to have baked them in. And the cassette tapes are there so that vandals know we don't have a CD player in the car - but that Honky Tonk tape was one of the first compilation tapes Steve ever made for me, about ten years ago. Good tonkin' tunes to warble along to on road trips. I mean, these days, guy who loves you might load your I-Pod for you, or burn a mix CD even; but there is something about a compilation tape that says "I Love You" like nothing else can. Also, it has the Derailer's version of Harlan Howard's "I Don't Believe I'll Fall In Love Today" on it twice in a row, because I always want to hear it again. That, people, is LOVE.


Five things in Marla's purse (which Andrea was kind enough not to refer to as a diaper bag):

Sadly, uninteresting too, and as in the fridge and car sections, she could have added crumbs and slime. Usually there are small plastic farm animals that tumble around and end up in weird postions in there too, but really, there's never much fun stuff in there any more. Sigh. Hopefully she did glimpse the funky card holder, a gift from her from the holiday exchange, which I use and love.

Which brings me to more fun and funky things: flea market finds from this weekend. Stuff that having a paid-for car allows me to drop some loose change on:



(The couple on this trivet doesn't look unlike me and Steve. I'll have to work on disproving that saying!)

And Odd Mix's Weekend Words Challenge this week? Beauty and Beholder.

I am so lucky and proud to have such a beautiful daughter. She is such a wonderful thing to rest my eyes on - and it's not just her face. It's the shape of her arm. It's the way her hands move. The way her hair flies. And I love my garden, where we ate the gooseberries that have taken years to grow. Yes the, because after three years of growing this damn plant, there were only two frigging gooseberries on it. My tomatoes are growing. Slowly. But I look around, at my house, my life and my family, and there is beauty everywhere. So here are various glimpses of the beauties I saw this weekend, and then there is me, the beholder, trying to remember that my mind's eye is the best way to capture a moment, though it seems the camera is ever-present, thankfully capturing things I never want to forget.

I'm Not Sayin'...

I'm just sayin'...

One of my birthday presents from Steve and Josie, in the usual too-cool wrapping:



(Always with the custom-made, that Steve of mine!)

(I held off on unwrapping it for a very, very long time. About fifteen hours.)

Josie is ready to go to the party my dear friends held for me on Friday night:



Where there was cake...



(and where there is cake, there are toddler fingers poking in it. It is THE LAW.)

And dancing...



(on third floor deck, up against the sky, with party lights. Fantastic!)

And then leftover cake for breakfast yesterday...



(the breakfast of Birthday Girls everywhere!)


And the present was cute new shoes! Always an excellent present. No doubt.



M: Hi Boo. How do you like my present?

B: They are shoes.

M: Well, anything you haven't fouled yet is a good present.

B: I gave you a present.

M: You did? I missed it. (glances around nervously)




B: This morning. I gave you claw squeezies on your arm and chewed your hair. My presence.

M: I was supposed to be sleeping in. You woke me up. I am allergic to you, and I got hives and had to run for my inhaler. You are confusing presence with a present.

B: I am not. I was there and did not wash my privates as I normally do on your bed.


M: You are confusing the absence of misbehaviour with good behaviour. You are confusing the lack of repellent behaviour with being pleasant. Actually, you might be confusing being pleasant with giving a present.





B: Actually, you are now confusing my presence with my attention. I am only here because I thought I heard you shake the Pounce can.

M: No, but I did put some food in your bowl. You are confusing obligation with affection.

B: No, you are just confused.





M: You have a way of bringing that out, Boo Boo.

B: It is one of my gifts. A gift is like a present! You're welcome. Happy Birthday.

M: Thank you. I think.

You Want A Piece Of Me?

I'm still parallel-playing at my age. I cannot resist a challenge. I'm a keener when it comes to questionnaires. I'm an open book - and I'd probably tell you this stuff even if you didn't ask. But, since you asked...

Hi. I am Marla Good. My blog is called Hello Josephine.

This is Josephine:



Those were the first words I ever said to her. "Hello, Josephine."


You did ask, didn't you?





Yes. That.


What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?

You know, before I had a child, I never thought much about kids unless they were either piercing my eardrums with shrieks or somehow spattering me with their ectoplasm. I believe that there were jokes made upon hearing babies cry about my ovaries shriveling up and falling out my pant leg. But at some point...okay, at the point when I was pregnant and watched Cold Mountain and there was that scene...you know it...when the soldiers laid the baby on the cold ground and tied the woman to the stake to get her to confess to the whereabouts of her cow? I lost it then and there. Now I cannot stand the thought of children being hurt. In the slightest - whether it's me not wanting to play "What's Your Name" with Josie for the fiftygazillionth time or children being starved and abused here in Toronto, or the children of famine and war all around the world. Add to that my sorrow for the parents of these children - oh crap, I could barely stand upright if I let those thoughts enter any further into my conscience. I would never stop getting all Sally Struthers if I let myself go. So I take my meds and I do what I can to feel like I may have eased a little misery here and there. I could do more.



What is your idea of earthly happiness?

A clear conscience. Mine's pretty good, it gets a little singed, but never really burnt. But, you know, snuggling with my family in the half-awake/half-asleep state is hard up under that. But I couldn't really enjoy it if my conscience was smoldering, so conscience first, then cuddles.



To what faults do you feel most indulgent?

Self-indulgence. I take the fluffier pillows, the fattier bit of steak, the larger serving of ice cream and I steal time to accomplish things that matter most to me only, to blog, to read and to write. I procrastinate, I over-promise, and I like to think that my charm and wit will help cover-up what my generosity doesn't compensate for. And, because this question is preceded by one wherein I mention my conscience - I don't feel bad about any of that stuff. Much. I mean, it's like grabbing the oxygen mask first. Or the Nutella first. Whatever.



Who are your favorite heroes/heroines of fiction?

Katie Carr in "How to be Good" by Nick Hornby. She was the inspiration for my contribution to an upcoming panel discussion that I feel honoured to be invited to participate in. She came up with a brilliant solution to a problem more pervasive than anyone wants to admit.


Charlotte, in Charlotte's Web, by E.B. White. In her short life, she knew her position in life, her duty, and yet still wanted to do one good thing for a friend. Her life was complex, but clear. I'm envious of that balance.

The ubiquitous Elizabeth Bennet, for her preciseness in speaking. Of course I know it was Austen's writing, but how prudently were her words chosen, even in passion - the very opposite of a lot of the careless spewing that often goes into blogs.




Who are your heroes/heroines in real life?

Anyone who does more than I do, which is practically everyone. Whether it's single-parenting, swimming across a lake, having more kids, surviving a disease, following a dream, saving lives, making a charitable difference...the list is endless. Man, I SUCK. Where's the hair shirt?



Who are your favorite characters in history?

Oh, cripes. I'm not running for Miss America here.



What historical figures do you most despise?

Evil meanies. The usual ones.



What is the quality you most admire in a man or woman?

“Everyone tries to define this thing called Character. It's not hard. Character is doing what's right when nobody's looking.”



What is your favorite virtue?

Of the Cardinal Virtues? Courage. I would like to have more, but luckily I haven't really needed it anyway.

Of the Theological Virtues? Hope. Without hope, I wouldn't even bother to open my eyes in the morning.

Of the Contrary Virtues? Diligence against sloths. The are so slow-moving that algae grows on them and they eat it. Disgusting. Oh...sloth? That too.

Of the Heavenly Virtues?
Fortitude. I carry on despite how I am, but what if things were worse? Holy crap, I'd suck. I've said it before - I'd be first down at the Donner Party.



Who or what would you have liked to be?

The person I could have been if I'd always tried a little harder - but without losing who or what I am now. So it's un-possible to be anything but me, as I am.



Where would you like to live?

Austin, Texas. It's weird, and some people want it to stay that way.

And we just might just make that move one day.



What is your most marked characteristic?

Verbosity, which is excellent for my liberal applications of sarcasm - both of which are hopefully tempered by some humility, and all together, they allow me to express myself as I really am. Otherwise, I'd burst.



What do you most value in your friends?

Understanding. Hopefully they love me for who I am, not how I am.



What is your principle defect?

Thoughtlessness. And over-thinking. A winning combination!



What to your mind would be the greatest of misfortunes?

To be given everything I ever asked for. I mean, perfect teeth and skin wouldn't be something to regret, but what would I do with that pony now? And when I wanted to grow up to be a lone wolf journalist living from story to story, looking for soul in the cold, cruel world...where and who would I be now without the family I chose, and that not only chose me, but keeps choosing me every day?



What is your favorite bird?

The Swallow. They have so many symbolic meanings, most importantly, that home is near.

"Swallows- Because of its annual return, the swallow is often used as a symbol of spring, increasing light, fertility, regeneration, and birth and awakening. In Mali, swallows are considered symbols of purity because they never land on the ground. One of the most fortunate of birds, to see a swallow in the early days of spring is very lucky. If swallows nest in the eaves of your house, success, happiness, good fortune and protection from storms are assured for all."



Who are your favorite prose writers?

E.B. White, James Herriott, Ann Marie MacDonald, Damon Runyan, O.Henry, Raymond Chandler, and there are more, of course.



Who are your favorite poets?

E.B. White, Sarah Teasdale (when I was 12 - snerk - get me!). Mary. I should read more poetry.



Who are your favorite composers/musicians?

Dave Alvin, Dolly Parton, Richard Thompson, Etta James, Paul Westerberg, the Clash, Harlan Howard, Dan Kershaw, Nudie and the Turks, Frank Sinatra, Nina Simone. Gillian Welch. Johnny Cash. Hank Williams. Josephine. And more, of course.



Who are your favorite artists?

Margaret Kilgallen, Isabel Samaras, Bryce McCloud , Camille Rose Garcia , Jim and Jimmy, and all of the wonderful folk artists that dared to just create because well, they just had to, and I mustn't forget Frederica Tomas.

But most of all, Steve.





What are your favorite names?

Josephine and Pasquale and Beauty. But I really like certain words more than names: Frond. Appetite. Beauty. Perfidia. Ephemera. Viscous. Pea.




What is it you most dislike?

Learning my limitations. I really would rather think of myself as all-seeing, all-knowing and all-powerful, and able to do anything if I'd just try... but I keep getting reminded that I'm human, and it's such a bummer.



What natural gift would you most like to possess?

I would love to sing. I mean, I do sing, but I would like for it to sound as beautiful to others as it does to me.



How would you like to die?

Readily, willingly, ably and TIMELY. Timelyly. Shit, nothing sounds right. When it's time.



What is your present state of mind?

Contemplative.



What is your motto?

Leave the party while you're still having fun. On the flip side of that, never sample the dregs.





Oh wait...this is about blogging?



What is the quality you most admire in a blogger?

Um, is the term "voice" applicable here as a quality? Because I like for a blogger to write as she speaks, and to speak as she thinks, and to think as she feels - and to speak and feel and think about her unique experience. And when it comes out right, it has to make me want to hump her leg with gleeful admiration.



What is your most marked blogging characteristic (or, how would you describe your blog)?

A picture is worth a thousand words, but with me, you're going to get the thousand words anyway. Plus another three hundred for extra credit. And, you know, Boo Boo.




What is your greatest virtue as a blogger (what do you most like about your blog)?

That my blog is like my life: A mysterious, beautiful box of varied chocolate punching bags!

You never know what you're going to get...a blithering recap of various events, some of which may or not bear some relation to things I've mentioned before...an obscure link-sodden meme... a sensitive post that will make you wipe your nose on your bare arm if you have to...ten pounds of toddler charm in a five pound sack (and I mean it - it is chock full of cute toddler posts)...perhaps a freaky post about histrionic jerkitude in the form of a cat... and I don't know what the hell kind of rambling...all in between having DEEP THOUGHTS.



But blogging is not my life, and my blog does not tell everything about me. I could walk away from it. I think. Is there a test on this later?






What do you regard as the principle defect of your blog?

I have terrible blog manners. I don't have a blogroll or any bells and whistles. I have the basic boring "black template of death". I hate buttons and tags and thingies. I don't always respond to comments, even lovely ones, the way I maybe should. And man, my readers are pretty great. I lurk at many blogs daily, and don't even leave a simple comment when I know comments make people so so happy. And I'm a trifle regretful about these things. But not enough to make me do something about it (See thoughtlessness above). But if I did it all the way I'd love to, it'd be a full time job and I already have enough jobs (See over-thinking above).

I view it much as I view my garden - it's mine, and I nurture it for myself mainly, but kind of for others to enjoy too (The term "as a by-product" comes to mind, but I'm not that careless.) (How about in a shy-exhibitionist way? Is that better?). Stop and smell the flowers, smile or say something if you want to or keep on walking and that's more than fine and hey, look out for Boo Boo, and if you're going to shit in my garden, at least let me know what fence I should lob it back over after I scoop it up and make fun of it.




It's amazing enough to me that I have a blog (and a real garden, for that matter) at all. From time to time I'll scatter some seeds and point out some other lovely gardens, but really, it's mine to do what I want with. It's all optional. It has to be enough for me that I get to post, because those are already enough of the stolen moments. Spending a minute more time or effort on anything beyond content is squandering time I could be using to smell my daughter's head.

(Waves at all of the readers and commenters she really does appreciate, and ducks behind the hydrangeas, resuming gardening as if nobody is watching.)



What character of fiction do you most wish had a blog?

Nobody, really. Do people go around wishing for stuff like this? Cripes. I can barely keep up as it is. Okay, maybe, if movie characters count, Veronica, from Heathers. Before, during and after the body count, please.


What historical or real life person do you most wish had a blog?

My mothers (biological and adoptive) and grandmothers. There's so much that I want to know, but could never, don't want to or can no longer ask. (Wow - a rather heartfelt answer after that last one!) And I cannot wait to read Josephine's.



What is your present state of blog (present state of mind as a blogger)?

Flux.

Of course in the meaning flowing in and flowing out.

Not so much with the archaic diarrhea or dysentery meaning.

Perhaps in the abnormal discharge of matter from or within the body meaning.

Quite possibly in the amount of of radiant energy across a given area meaning.

Most certainly in the continuous change meaning.

Euphemistically in the substance mixed with a solid to lower its melting point meaning.

Cutely in the verb transitive: to treat with a flux to promote melting.

And yes, as simply as in the origins of the word, from late Middle English deriving from the Latin "fluxus" - to flow.

For that matter, yes, all of the others that my friend the Thesaurus provides: continuous change, changeability, variability, inconstancy, fluidity, instability, unsteadiness, fluctuation, variation, shift, movement, oscillation, alternation, rise and fall, seesawing, yo-yoing.



And I say all that like it's a good thing.




What is your blog motto?

"Ever try to get snot off a cat?"

Seriously, no one has ever told me if they've tried to get snot off a cat. I'm still waiting. And I'll tell you - I have, and some hairs are going to come off with it, once you can get the cat to stand for it, which is after he gets over the initial insult. It was originally a throw-off from SnotFest 2006, but I kept it because, well - it's like those "like nailing Jell-o to a wall" sayings. They're funny because they're true.

So there. It really means "It's funny because it's true."


And you wanted a piece of me? You want a piece of me?!

Dire Plaits.

In the last post, I referred to Josephine's hair as gossamer - a carefully chosen word. The definition, "a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, which is seen esp. in autumn. • used to refer to something very light, thin, and insubstantial or delicate" is perfect.

I am also pleased that gossamery is really a word. I wasn't sure if I could use it.

"a gossamer veil gauzy, gossamery, fine, diaphanous, delicate, filmy, floaty, chiffony, cobwebby, wispy, thin, light, insubstantial, flimsy; translucent, transparent, see-through, sheer"

It's such a cool word! and who can forget one of my favourite obscure cartoon characters, Gossamer!



And get this:

DERIVATIVES gossamery adjective ORIGIN Middle English : apparently from goose + summer 1 , perhaps from the time of year around St. Martin's summer, i.e., early November, when geese were eaten (gossamer being common then).

Who knew that? Anyone? Anyone?


Josephine's hair, which is growing in length but is still so fine in texture, does not feel like hair. It is soft and flyaway and can barely be controlled - and well, in the mornings, it doesn't even look like hair. It looks like she's been bred from a pair of fuzzy pencil toppers.



I try to tame it into ponytails and braids and have handfuls of barettes in every style. When it's wet, her braids are so thin and pointy they could put an eye out if she turns too fast.



And yet, it dries so quickly strands escape if I so much as exhale in her general direction.



It's always in her eyes, and I find myself doing that parent thing - brushing it away and tucking it aside with my fingers. My sometimes freshly licked fingers. It doesn't help.

Hats work, when she wears them. And we all know how toddlers love to wear hats.



Kerchiefs work. In the front.



And the colour? It is sunshine itself. In fact, there are times when I have to play with pictures in photoshop because it looks more like a halo than a hairstyle.



And so, I am always searching for what will tame the wild and beautiful locks of my golden-haired girl, mostly so she is able to run and play safely. While the habit of either lazily or unconsciously brushing one's locks out of one's eyes is fetching and charming at times, it's also a hindrance and an affectation that at this point, can impede her, even momentarily, in playing. And I want her to be completely free and unselfconscious and unfettered for as long as possible.

So while grocery shopping last night, I saw these headbands, and thought, well, she's past the stage where it looks like she'd be wearing one of those infant brain tourniquet thingies.




Heck. I mean, Prada's doing it, right?


So I bought some. And she loved them. I was picturing a wee Alice in Wonderland.




But she loved all of them. At once. So what do I get instead of the tidy looking little moppet I'd imagined?



Mark Knopfler.

Gift Horses

Odd Mix's Weekend Words Challenge: This week's words? Gift and Giver.


Usually, gifts are happy things. In this case, I am a bit sad to have been given this.

Gift:



This is my grandmother's spoon. She has, or rather, had, used it for as long as I can remember, and even as long as my mother and her older sister can remember. So we can assume it takes over seventy years of stirring the sauce in the same direction to wear the bowl of a spoon down like this. My grandmother's decline has been slow and painful, for us and for her, and I now realize how it's been a long while since I've seen this in her hand. No one can know the legions she's fed with sauces and soups and stews stirred with that spoon, but I know my first baby food came from it (we're Italian - it was beef soup with acini di pepe), and that my heart and soul were fed too. It was the cure-all for everything, that soup. It soothed a million childhood hurts, it was a balm for the wounded confidence of an unpopular pre-teen, comfort for an angsty teen, reassurance for a confused twenty-year old, and it was the best sustenance for the exhausted mother of a newborn.

Giver:




Her hand. So sadly beautiful with its gnarled form in such contrast to Josie's smooth and fresh baby skin.




We were also given the gift of a few moments of lucidity, and a well-behaved toddler who understood that sometimes sick old people act kind of funny.



My grandma was glad to see her little namesake, and just the touch of Josie's soft and dimpled hands and the feel of her blond gossamer hair was a thrill for her. She is probably being touched and handled more than ever lately, what with needing help due to her near-complete immobility - but her need to reach out and touch things for herself is heartbreaking. She can't see much, and can barely hear, and so there is always this reaching around, hands trembling and searching for what is near. To find a soft and pliant toddler is lovely enough for me every day - for her, a rare treat and so I could not help but rue our distance.

It was hard to have a visit with the nurse hovering, and it felt strange to see my grandmother's home being slowly pilfered for souvenirs as we prepare to move her to a care facility. While it would have been nice to just visit, living in another city in another country means that I had to use part of this visit to measure the bedroom set that has been designated for me, and to look around for any other mementos. I wanted the bowl my grandfather drank his coffee out of every morning, and the latest version of the Kit Kat Clock (there's always been one in her home, except for a few years when there was a poodle clock). It's not grandma's house without a Kit Kat Clock - and now, well, it's not Grandma's home really. Her mind is elsewhere. It's pretty well gone.






How do you choose what you want to remember someone with when they're still there, but they're just not the person you remember, and so it feels like stealing? How do you choose something for your child, what she might like to remember someone she probably won't remember with?

It's been hard to visit. This was probably the last to this apartment, and for all we know, every visit could be the last, period. We never know what we'll find. The frequent bouts of dementia have been painful to watch, and it's eerie to think about what she is seeing through it - trees in corners, strange men, bugs. Observing her physical frailty wounds my heart. And knowing of the rest of the horrorshow, such as the falls and resulting bruises, the incontinences, the ravings and railings and rages; plus hearing of the impatience and mental strain on her daughters as caregivers (some more temperamentally suited than others) and the snits (who got the pink pearls and who's not doing her share), and the "what do we do nows" and, well, all of the other insults to the body and brain and soul of the beautiful lady who is my grandmother during this long goodbye...it's festering. While we're passing around gifts here, hey, how about a swift, painless and merciful passing for a dear old lady who doesn't deserve to spend her last days telling everyone who'll listen "I want to go home"?

Because it all hurts - and if I had to really think any deeper about the aging, losing loved ones, and the spectacular debris that accumulates in one's life - I'd be paralyzed with wondering about it all. Why do we do it, when the unknown is still so...unknown? What becomes of some is saddening enough, but man, seeing a loved one with Alzheimer's Disease is like watching an open sore.