Embracing the Denial

Yesterday was a lovely late Summer day. Josephine and I met friends at the Toronto Island Ferry, and then spent the afternoon enjoying Centre Island. Watching Josie and her little friend enjoy the Franklin Children's Garden was perfectly enchanting, and the rides at Centreville and a picnic lunch were pretty great too.

It was idyllic. The kids were exploring, I was chatting with a wonderful friend...why, I only had random moments to think of my grandmother in her new home, perhaps sitting in her wheelchair wondering when the "therapy appointment" she was taken to would end so she could return home. I only thought about that maybe two hundred forty-seven times, in between peaceful, absorbing moments spent watching Josephine play with the truly cool bronze sculptures.



At one point I asked my friend what the date was...because I suspect I've been studiously avoiding knowing it. It was the weather. It was such a great day - not too hot, not too cold. I perhaps perspired maybe once when standing in the direct sun, but otherwise, not only was I comfortable, but the very very pregnant lady with me was too.

That was a hint.

That was foreshadowing.

After having been away the previous weekend, and an activity and adventure-packed beginning of the week, Josie and I have spent hardly any time at all in the back yard. So when I walked outside this morning, with a basket of laundry to hang, and saw this;




Brace yourself.




I mean it.




You think I'm just being funny. I know you've seen the Halloween items in the stores, the back to school stuff, the Christmas crap too...but have you seen this?



Yes, there it is. A pile. A DRIFT of dry, dessicated, DEAD leaves on my back stairs.

I could ignore that, I could. Because the sun was shining and it was warm and I had to squint.

And then I looked down again.




Damn. No denying it.


So I started hanging the laundry, and then pinks and yellows of Josie's summer clothes suddenly looked obscene to my eyes. I put them to the side, to be discreetly tumbled dry and perhaps pulled out on another day, if maybe the fall leaves should magically disappear, like even tomorrow or next week maybe. Perhaps a day when I might be more prepared to deny that...Autumn is on its way. Oh, it was plenty warm today - I could have pretended it was still Summer. But no. It's too true. It's not going to happen. Shorts will do - no longer will whisper thin sundresses will be necessary to simply be able to breathe. Fall. Coming. Soon.

So the blues seemed so much more appropriate.



As I reached the bottom of the basket, and saw our sneakers piled in there waiting to be shaped and dried, a leaf fluttered in.



Hah! Got you! Fluttering in would be poignant and perhaps picturesque. That leaf dive bombed the basket, and when it hit the wet canvas, it spread out like a starfish on the beach in an attempt to soak up the summery feel of drying comfortable shoes. Then, it taunted me by saying, "Hey! Didn't you just buy a new pair of Rocket Dogs on your last trip to Buffalo? And you've only worn them twice? And you have new party shoes! Black straw party shoes - oh so Summery! Why did you think they were on sale? Because it's FALL, you knob!" and then I may have muttered something about how those high-heeled platform loafers, even though they weren't discounted, would have been more in contention if I'd only glanced out the back door before I set off for Buffalo. I do believe that then the leaf made some kind of rude gesture that wiped every last bit of pleasure remaining from that heady hour in DSW Shoe Warehouse, then it scurried into the corner of the basket, knowing that I hate smart-assed leaves. So I told it how I did consider the Charles David four inch pumps with the pointe ballerina toes that were 80% off, but that pregnancy left me with half a shoe size larger than I used to be and that a pinky toe amputation would eat up all the savings. And how I am a grown-up, responsible, smart person who knows better than to buy absolutely gorgeous shoes that are a half-size too small, because I have been hurt enough in this life and I do not need the agony of self-inflicted pinchy toes. I have killer BCBG stilettos for that.

Then I turned my back on that dry heave of nature, and began to do a bit of a quick yard clean-up.

Oh dear...my charmingly rusty and battered assortment of pots, when barren, only look sad and trashy - not charming and rustic and quirky.



I have to go and buy cute little flowering kales and stuff for them now, don't I? Maybe even...gasp...mini evergreens?

Then I trimmed a few overgrown things, pulled up the tomato plants that provided some lovely tomatoes...that the raccoons enjoyed. And, trepidatiously, I approached the gooseberries. That...that...plant. It has a taste for my blood. For all the years I've had it, it has only produced two berries. And yet I hope, I sometimes hope with a pure and vibrant gleam of keen desire, that one day I will be glad to have it because it will be fruitful and nourishing. As I attempted to cut it back just a little, I silently pleaded with it not to hurt me again. But of course, not content merely to scratch my forearm as usual, or perhaps send a branch down to swipe my cheek or tangle in my hair and dig into my scalp -- it slyly went for a tender part. My damn foot. The arch of my damn foot - speared by a tiny dry branch I'd dropped. Why yes, it IS silly to garden in knit slippers. I know that NOW.




I limped across the yard and decided to cut my last blooming rose, and maybe some mint to put in vases and make my kitchen smell nice. The sun was shining through the window on my desk, and I wanted to put something in my Grandma's vase. It will always be her vase, even though it's in my home now.



Upon closer inspection, the lone rose's stem had been bent and almost broken off short. Where? Right where Boo Boo jumps down from the neighbour's fence, that's where.


M: Boo Boo. Get off the couch, then please tell my why you always gotta wreck my things. That was my last rose!



B: It was either that or get stabbed by one of your frigging gooseberry thorns.

M: You know, I can't argue with you there. I'm sorry Boo. Go back to your nap. Want some Pounce?



I puttered some more, all the while keeping up a conversation with Josephine. It seems that I was not the only one who was suffering. Poor Teddy Bear Blue. His philtrum was hurting him.



Josephine insisted that this required my sympathy and real attention - not more "mmm-hmming and oh reallying", I picked him up for a cuddle, and whispered in his round loopy cloth ear "Suck it up Buddy Boy. I just got maimed by a gooseberry thorn, and if the pain doesn't keep me from wearing my cute new shoes, the fact that the season is changing too rapidly for my liking will. I'm feeling a bit mean about it, and suggest you quit your moaning before I accidentally introduce you to my thorny little friend over there." And then I said aloud, "Hey Josephine! Teddy bear says he needs a nap to make his philtrum feel better. Let's leave him outside and go in and play dress up!"



And so we shut the door on Fall encroaching. I'll admit, that for lunch, after the noodles had boiled, for a moment I thought about chopping up some red onion, celery, red pepper and carrot in order to make a cold pasta salad. But then, I thought, well, a tussle with nature's seasonal inevitability is not a fight I can win. So I added some chicken, Parmesan and tomato sauce and served it hot. Because Autumn means cosy food!


And I thought about how maybe there'd be one more really hot day where the shoes, with a little black skirt and top would be perfect - with a cashmere sweater over my shoulders for evening. There's still some time before we really need to consider fall shoes, isn't there?

Traveling.

In this picture, you can find so many things that make my visits to my parents' home in Buffalo veer into the Torturous Lane of the Annoyance Highway to Irritation City.



1) See the pie plate? Dollar store gift from my mom's hairdresser.

2) Probably lead-glazed.

3) Food kept in it.

4) For over a week.

5) It was a dried up ring of store-bought "coffee cake" , with one four-inch wide slice out of it.

6) Sitting on a pot-holder, even though neither the faux pie nor the coffee cake inside it, were hot. Ever.

7) Because she had her lady friends over last week, and had to offer SOMETHING. Yet, on the counter and stacked on the microwave: a box of donuts, a container of cookies, four personal sized apple pies. and another pastry.

8) Yet somehow, those lady friends only had the equivalent of a single piece of said cake.

9) It certainly wasn't purchased so she could have just one bit, and then forget it was there.

10) And it went to waste.

11) Yet she clips coupons to save money.

12) And mostly buys food on sale, from a certain grocery store because the other one "is too expensive". That's right, the whole store, not the items in it.

13) And being friends with your hairdresser? Sometimes a bad idea.

14) Because if you don't like what she does, you still feel obligated to use her services and maintain the friendship.

14) Especially if she picks you up and drives you home from your appointments.

15) Because even though your husband is a cab driver, it's more important that he drives other people around even if it means your hair looks like an orange Brillo pad.

16) And then you have to buy gifts for your hair dresser friend on holidays and birthdays.

17) But you don't want to spend a lot of money, since you already pay her for services you're not happy with.

18) And she has to do the same for you, of course, and she doesn't want to spend a lot of money either.

19) So the volley of dollar-store gifts continues for years.

20) Until the hairdresser friend sells her house and moves to Florida, which I have to hear the continuing saga of.

21) And then when the hairdresser friend gets to Florida, the house she buys is more expensive than she thought it would be, so the hairdresser friend who can't get a license there gets a job at a grocery store and then gets diagnosed with Lupus and I have to care because she's my mother's friend and we talk about subjects like this rather than other, perhaps more important things.

22) And so my mom can't get rid of the pie plate thingy because her hairdresser friend has Lupus and she'd feel guilty, even though her friend will never come to visit and though the dish hides food for so long, possibly contaminating it with lead, that the food becomes petrified, stuck to the bottom plate with its glue-like frosting, and solidifies in such a manner that it has to be shaved off the plate with a metal spatula, because after three days I couldn't stand knowing that it was STILL IN THERE and had to remove it myself so I didn't go crazy and try to knock myself unconscious with it, thus leaving my mother to let my daughter run around naked in a house I have hygienic issues with.

23) Also, the polyester lace tablecloth which is laid over another polyester tablecloth, is covered with plastic.

24) And the chair seats at this table are still partially covered in plastic (partially because some of it is ripped, but still it hasn't been completely removed).

25) When did we become a family who covers things in plastic ?!?

26) Because the lace tablecloth is polyester, remember? And that material washable and stain-resistant !?!

27) Why not just use a plastic tablecloth !?! Because they make white plastic lace-like tablecloths, you know.

28) And yet, the plastic tablecloth cover (not called a tablecloth itself, by the way) is not that clean.

29) Also, my dad uses a pocket protecter.

30) Worse, a pocket protecter with the logo of a place I've never heard of.

31) And all of those pens suck - none of them writes well. Not well enough to drip ink through a pocket, at any rate.

32) He wears it to "protect" the shirts he loves to buy from a thrift store.

33) Because the thrill of getting cheap clothing at half the price on senior discount day is one of his favourite things.

34) He buys shirts that already have little spots on them.

35) But he protects them anyway.

36) And then the pockets rip because his protecter is too heavy.

37) Also because he has a very heavy calculator in there.

38) Because he doesn't trust modern thin ones.

39) That is indeed a very long shoe horn.

40) And he uses it.

41) And he has toenail fungus and crusty heels that send foot flakes through his black polyester stretched-out socks.

41) And the shoehorn is on a table that we eat from (after I scrub the plastic tablecloth, being marginally grateful for that small washable mercy).

42) Also, the shoehorn on the table reminds me that there are other germy, disgusting bacteria covered things on other tables around the house, like a flyswatter, crumpled knee-high nylons, and nail clippers. Because he gets dressed and undressed in the dining room on the way to the bedroom, leaving his clothes hanging on the backs of the chairs.

43) And the table and chairs are too big for that room, and so nobody can move around and get in and out if others are seated.

44) And there are too many pieces of furniture that are of the oversized variety, and too many cluttery things so that you just can't walk from room to room without twisting and turning, and saying "Excuse me, I have to go (HERE)." because otherwise the person that needs to move will always shift in the exactly wrong direction; and yet they keep buying more dressers and storage tubs and things to hold the clutter instead of getting rid of any of it. In addition to storing things for other people, like boxes for the cousin that is moving and apparently can't get to a liquor store herself to get her own damn boxes. Yet, this is preferable, in that they have something to hold against her.

45) And the colours are all brown and orange and patterned and busy, and it all gives me a headache even when nothing and nobody is moving.

46) And all of the table lamps can't be reached easily, so the living room is often dark, and I have to crawl over the sofa arms to turn them on if I want to because my mom can't with her bad knee.

47) They use one light only, the socket it is plugged into hooked up to a switch on the wall to the left as you walk in the door. Furthermore, the switchplate has holes for four switches, yet there are only two, but they won't change it themselves because they rent the apartment and so it has been that way for the eighteen years they've lived there.

48) The TV is also hooked up to that switch, so when you walk in and flip the switch, the TV and the one light go on.

49) And then the TV is always on. Tuned in to the cooking channel for the most part, though my mom never cooks anything they demonstrate.

50) And it is impossible to think when I'm there, because of all of these things colliding in my brain; and what I wanted to think about is how when I returned to my home, my own table was going to look like this:




Which it does now, because this past weekend became about the last visit to my grandmother's home. Today, as I write, she is being removed to a care facility, and I want to think about anything but that. Because when I look at the last few things I chose during our visit - the old things that have been in my life since forever, and how strange they look in my home, my eyes tear a little.

And even that is better than what I am trying to block out of my ears - the sound of my aunt crying as she told me that while the home is as good as can be hoped for, it is still going to be scary and awful. That they have had remarkably little guidance as to how to make a smooth transition - and so all they'll be doing is packing a suitcase with clothing, a few pictures, and the new slippers I bought, and driving my grandmother over this afternoon. I can't think about that journey. I choose to think about how even though she can't walk any longer, she still should have something on her feet for when they wheel her around, right? And finding the perfect slippers became a mission. Because slippers seem to fall into only two categories these days - silly or sexy. So finding some that would be comforable, safe and dignified for her days in her wheelchair in this home became a mission and a distraction.

And then I can think about something nice like that - instead of the other thought about her wheelchair - the one where she begs for the seatbelt to be unbuckled all day long, which nearly exhausted my ability to distract her and respond in a kind and patient tone, "Oh Gram, I'm so sorry, I can't because you might fall out and get hurt". What will the response be in the home? Will someone spend four hours offering her crackers, finding her hand towels to fold badly and endlessly, holding her hands and talking about her beautiful nail polish, and encouraging a busy toddler to come over so she could stroke a fluffly little head just to stop the moaning and wringing and asking for something I could not do? And that was just one afternoon...one visit...for me. Can someone who doesn't love her, well, love her like that?

Which is still a rather normal and only depressing thought, as opposed to the utter despair I feel when I can't block out the sound of my mother and her sisters fighting about how they don't want to keep a schedule for visiting her and checking on her. So it could be days without a visit from a loved one. Or, I'll bet sometimes, weeks.

And even that is only a despairing thought, as opposed to the devasting thoughts regarding the concern that there are male attendants in this home, and that my mom and aunts are going to have to make it very very clear that having a male moving her and being present during the twice weekly bathing can not happen. In her paranoid delusions, it is always men that she sees and is suspicious of. It has been fifteen years since my grandfather died, and since then she's had visits from her sons-in-law and grandsons; but no men caring for her. It cannot be but frightening for her, even in her state. But we cannot know if this request will be adhered to, and so this loss of control, upon so many others, is so far beyond devastating that I'm not even going to bother checking the Thesaurus for a word to describe it.

Instead I am going to look across the room at Josephine playing with something she chose from my grandmother's home - a paperweight. It always sat on the table by the telephone, and when I was little, I too would pick it up and roll it around, feeling its smoothness across my skin. I am charmed and fascinated that she too feels compelled to rub it across her eyes and forehead, and circle her lips and cheeks and chin with it.



And I am going to look at this picture one more time, and cry a little, hoping Josephine is too distracted with her snacks while I steal the paperweight back for a minute and press its round coolness hard against my burning, tearstained eyes.

Correspondence.

Dear Blogger,

I hate how when I try to use your photo feature you crash my browser.

Fumingly,
Marla



Dear Flickr,

I hate how my bandwidth is filling up so quickly these last two months.

Irritatedly,
Marla



Dear Photobucket,

I hate how I have to re-size photos on you.

Crankily,
Marla



Dear Spider Under the Bar in the Dining Room,

How long have you lived there? How the h-e-double hockey sticks did you get so big?

Worriedly,
Marla

P.S. Please be nice to Josie. She thinks you are cute and is naming you Missy.




Dear Former Homeowners,

Why did you have to be such idiots? Why are the gaps in the floor so huge, and why couldn't you measure anything, from quarter-round to planks so that they would fit flush and wouldn't collect crap around and in them?

Frustratedly,
Marla




Dear Dried Squashed Raisins on the Floors,

I thought you were knot holes in the pine for the longest time.

Apologetically,
Marla




Dear Swiffer,

You suck. What have your products been doing all this time? Certainly not cleaning. Certainly not picking up dried squashed raisins off my floors.

Testily,
Marla




Dear Former Homeowners,

Why did you think that soft, easily scratched knotty pine planks made for good flooring? Was it because dried squashed raisins could be passed off as knotholes?

Disgustedly,
Marla




Dear Palmolive and Dollar Store Scrubbies,

Thank you for helping me get dried squashed raisins off the floors. Well done. You, me, a little elbow grease - we make a good team. We kicked Swiffer's ASS!

Appreciatively,
Marla




Dear Dollar Store Foam Kneeling Pad 0riginally Purchased For Gardening,

I appreciate your help, as the hands and knees scrubbing of the floors I did today was rather uncomfortable before I got the idea to use you. Did you get a load of those dried squashed raisins? However, I must admit, that you made my knees sweat and then got all slimy, possibly causing more problems than you solved. In the future, I shall use a rolled up towel. Enjoy your new home at Value Village!

Regretfully,
Marla




Dear Spider Under the Bar in the Dining Room, a.k.a. Missy,

Get back under there, please.

Threateningly,
Marla




Dear Boo Boo,

I don't want to know what that was, but please don't do it again.

Alarmedly,
Marla




Dear Friends Who Are Pregnant, Friends Who Have Had Babies Recently, and Other Friends In General,

I don't know where the time has been going, but I never seem to get ahead. I just spent almost an hour cleaning the floor, on my hands and knees, with a scrubbie, dish soap and hot water. I worked really hard, and found out exactly where I'd been slacking. Boy, old houses are hard to keep clean. To keep Josie busy, I used the TV and gave her a snack. I probably shouldn't have given her raisins. There's already a fresh one on the floor under the coffee table. They just get squashed and dry up and then resemble knotholes and then it's possible to ignore them for days...possibly weeks. You cannot make me admit to months. I have to tell you, though, I feel a lot better and will now try to rejoin the land of the living.

Confidently,
Marla


Dear Writers For That Stupid Cartoon TV Show "Arthur",

Excuse, me, but I have become aware that the topic of today's show had something to do with the fact that somebody's pet died. Because my kid asked me "What is DIED, Mommy?" !!! Can I please ask when cartoons became a place to introduce topics such as this? Because I thought cartoons used to be funny. Funny like in HA HA! Like, a coyote tries to catch a roadrunner in hundreds of ingenious but ultimately unsuccessful ways, and yet somehow NOBODY DIES. Not funny like Arthur's sister had a visit from the Grim Reaper, but it's okay! She'll find another pet! Who will eventually DIE AS WELL! I wouldn't have even had the stupid TV on, but my floor really really needed extra cleaning because the people who owned this house before us were even bigger idiots than you apparantly are.

Disbelievingly,
Marla



Dear World,

It is 2006. Advances in technology mean that surely there must be a way for old houses to be more easily cleaned. Can someone invent a natural and non-toxic permanent product to spray on floor surfaces, in order to seal cracks and fill nooks and crannies in so that all they need is a quick wipe, perhaps even with a Swiffer product? Also, please make it cushiony and non-sweaty for my knees and it should repel spiders. Thanks.

Hopefully,
Marla




Dear Raisins,

There are foods that are more nutritious than you are, and which are equally enticing for toddlers. You are small and sticky, and when squashed, can be easily mistaken for knotholes in my floors for far too long. This isn't working for me any longer. I regret to inform you that wrinkly little dark gummy guys like you are no longer welcome in my house.

Exasperatedly,
Marla




Dear Cous Cous,

I've threatened to make you an outside only food before. I mean it now. You have been banished. You're basically a vehicle for other flavours, and we lived for years without you and can do so again. Sayonara, you nasty little crumbles of crack-lodging grains. You shall never ping at my ankles again when I vacuum you up after you've dried, which is after you've refused to be picked up by Swiffer products, either wet or dry.

Huffily,
Marla




Dear Husband,

I am not the only one who had not noticed that dried squashed raisins have been passing themselves off as knotholes in our floors, and that cous cous has been substituted for crack-filler on our floors for an indeterminate period. Now that we are aware of these potentialities, let's do our best to not only prevent occurrences by methods such as revoking the privilege of these items being in the house, but by not only cleaning the floor at the end of a stick for weeks at a time. It appears that because we have a toddler residing with us, we now need to prostrate ourselves periodically because said toddler has food displacement issues beyond normal means of control.

Affectionately, but sternly,
Marla





Dear Toddler,

I understand your verbal objections, but need to reiterate: if raisins and cous cous are going to end up on the floor and then stepped on, I am going to have to spend time that could otherwise have been spent in play on my hands and knees scraping the floors with the dull side of a butter knife. The verdict comes down to the fact that there really is not much NEED to eat those two foods, and my sanity is very important, if we are going to scream about what people who live in this house NEEEEEEEEED. Therefore, I am making the executive decision to ban those items from this house.

I will make this provision: WHEN you can buy your own raisins and cous cous, and procure them for yourself, and prepare them, and remove the remains, and remove all traces of any items that didn't make the transmission from fingers or utensil to your mouth and beyond - THEN you can have them inside. Yes, I do understand that means it will be a very long time. But I never again want my knees to sweat the way they just did. Furthermore, I don't NEEEEEEEED to spend an hour of my life scraping dried squashed shit off the floors and out of cracks again, although I am probably going to have to anyway, because Swiffer sucks.

With all my love,
Your Mother

P.S. If Missy comes out from under the bar again, she will be in danger of resembling a squashed raisin doing an impersonation of a knothole.

When a Horse is Not Just a Horse, Of Course.

Believe it or don't: When I was a child, I grew up on a farm.

Okay, a house with acreage, a huge garden for food, with bunnies and chickens and dogs; and down the road, there was an actual working farm where I spent my days. I played for hours in the rows of corn. I rode the horses. I drove the tractor. Yes, I had the pony come to my birthday parties as a child. I milked with the goats, got chased and bitten by geese, and played in the hayloft and used the outhouse. I helped raise a cow there. Georgie, a Black Angus. He was delicious. My hands were washed with water I had to pump. It was a farmy farm, and I loved it. In fact - get this - the farmer's name was Elmer Buckhouse. It doesn't get any farmier. It shaped who I am today in no small way.

Believe it or don't: When my father's mother died, they used the money that was inherited to buy a few racehorses, because she supposedly had loved horses. That was news to me. For my mid to late teenage years, my folks had a few racehorses at Fort Erie, and sometimes they even won. What I know as well, was that they cost us a whole lot of money; and what I saw was that I didn't like how they, who were pretty well off compared to others, lived. Other horses had rotten lives. It was not like having a horse on a farm, where spending time in the apple orchard and then maybe a ride around the property was the order of the day. A little plowing maybe, but certainly no getting pumped full of vitamins and then being injured in a quick dash around an oval on a rainy day.

Believe it: I'm allergic to horses. When I rode, my thighs would have huge welts and hives, and I'd wheeze and itch. When I visited the track, I could barely see for the itchy watery eyes. I couldn't and wouldn't fulfill my folks' wish for me to help exercise the horses. When I joke that I was allergic to my parents throughout my teenage years, I'm not shitting you. I'd hug them and wheeze for hours afterward from the merest whiff of horsey smells.

But I do love horses. Those standard issue stories about how girls love horses are based in truth. There is nothing like them. I like them happy, well-cared for, and loved for how they are - not what people want them to be.

But I hate the way my parents love horses, and it has been a contentious subject in our relationship since those first experiences, when I saw behind the scenes at horse racetracks. I don't like racetracks. I tell my mom, only when pushed these days, and my mom will go on about how beautiful they are and how much heart the horses have, and how she gets so excited about them...and I just feel rotten inside.

I like how horses like people, sometimes. They have every right to be wary of them. Most get a raw deal.

And so, when we were invited to visit the farm where a friend's horse is kept so Josie could have a nice day, I was trepidatious. And then, I was thrilled.

The stables were clean, and empty. Except for some sheep.



M: Excuse me, sheep. Would you please re-arrange yourselves? That's looks like a fake picture. It's too tidy. It doesn't look natural.



M: Thank you.

Because the horses spend most of their time in lovely pastures. We walked right into them, and some of the horses came trotting over to say "Hi!".






And so we spent the afternoon wandering around the farm, just being with the horses, while our friend exercised and cared for her horse. And what I liked about that kind of horse riding was that it was the rider that was being trained to work with the horse. And that the horses were allowed to have their different personalities. The riders were all beautiful - enthusiastic, kind, and responsible personally for the care of their mounts.

Josie was at first, wide-eyed, then thrilled, then cocksure. If Blogger would let me upload photos without quitting, and if I hadn't topped up the Flickr account with these, I'd show you more. But really, I have to tell you this: if you want to know the most about my day, just watch my eyes fill up when I tell you about how much it was a gift for us as well as Josie, that she might learn to love such animals up close and personal too. For a little girl who lives in a big city, it means the world. A little part of the world, but an important one.





It was hard not to fall in love with Rupert, the little deaf pony. Any more time there and we'd have been writing a check for him. Rupert was beautiful, and sweet, and also had a shoe fetish, which caused me to look down and realize I should probably dash to the car for my Wellies. Because, well, horses poop, you know.










We also got to watch Ben the Border Collie work. The owner of the farm also breeds Border Collies, and so in a scene out of "Babe", Ben herded two sheep around a meadow while we watched from atop a big round of hay.






And most wonderful of all, our friend's horse was gentle enough for Josie to have a ride.







If I were to show you more of how the farm thrilled Josephine, your eyes would explode out of your head, and dissipate into minute sparkly crystals that would beat the air like butterfly wings and and fly away back in time to see it for themselves; and from then on, anything you'd see would be so gray and dismal you could barely stand to open them again and so you would stumble blindly about saying "Josephine was beaming. Beaming!".

As for me, I loved this Percheron. She was formerly kept for the collection of pregnant mare urine, as evidenced by the P17 brand on her side. Although it's debateable whether horses under those circumstances are treated humanely, I'm sure this farm is a happier place for her. I was just so happy to have met her under the circumstances where she could snuffle in my jacket pocket for carrots, and where if I offered any to others, I'd turn around and find her hanging over my shoulder.



I may have beamed a little too.

Fantasy and Reality.

Odd Mix's Weekend Words Challenge this week? Fantasy and Reality.

Once again, our weekend was amazing. Once I'm done looking through the Thesaurus for some superlatives with which to describe it, I'll tell you about it. It is way too nice today to be pecking away at the 'puter.

In the meantime, here's a clue:


FANTASY:




REALITY:




I know. I really don't need to say more than "a little girl and horses", but I'm going to.

Lady Bugging Me

Note to self:

Consider another place in which to hang Josie's ladybug kiddie pool after it's been drained for the night. It's a little bit startling to glance out the window while having a late-morning coffee and see this:

Somebody Had Better Pinch Me.

The lovely Ann D. posted THIS today. It doesn't feel real yet. If I am indeed dreaming, would somebody please wake me up before I get to the part where I show up there without any clothes on?

WWMD?

If you were me, you'd have to find creative solutions in order to live with yourself too.

Because, if you were me, you'd want to accomplish things, but you'd want to enjoy a nice day with your charming toddler. And you want to do things that need to be done, but you want to enjoy doing them too. Some days, the decisions about what to do with the time I have are hard. Some days, solutions just present themselves.

So, if there was a huge pile of ironing, and it was a gorgeous day and summer is drawing to a close - but the glider is calling, what would Marla do?





Yes.

Because, if you were me, you would find it soothing to iron beautiful vintage things. Not practical things - I took Steve's shirts to the drycleaner/launderer yesterday; but tea cosies need washing and ironing every once in a while, you know.





And I love to iron my handkerchiefs. My mother gave me a dozen that belonged to my grandmother, and so of course I had to freshly wash and iron them before they could be added to my handkerchief box. Because even if they were clean and had only been sitting in a drawer and in the bottoms of her purses for years and years, the idea of always being able to grab a fresh, beautifully pressed hankie thrills me (however faintly, but there's definitely a frisson).





"Wait a minute," you say, slowly, and in a suspicous tone, "All of this ironing business, under the shade-providing umbrella, sitting on the glider with the ironing board in a lowered position, using the garden hose to gently mist things...I ALMOST believe you. Except...except for the fact that you claim to have a toddler! What was the toddler doing during all of that luxuriating in the steam rising from the pressing of your charming vintage aprons?! Since she no longer naps, and there is no hammock to sew her up in, whatever was she doing?! Did you lash her to the bench with the excess from the extension cord?"

Well - get this. Josephine was amused, easily, for the better part of forty minutes, with nothing more than a wet paintbrush.






I'm sorry - I know. Others have been buying expensive toys, hiring help, going on excursions, standing on their heads, doing whatever to amuse their kids on a long, hot summer afternoon...and I had the good fortune to have a little girl who happily "painted" the chair for ages. It was a very involved task, you know. She got to boss me, telling me it was wet and not to touch it; she asked for periodic advice and updated me as to how she was doing - but the fact is, WOW, it kept her busy. And I got to iron two of my pleated skirts.


(ducks, avoiding a hail of flip-flops, hot wheels cars, washable markers and Sandra Boynton books)


Hey! But that couldn't last forever! Whatever else could amuse my daughter?! I couldn't give up the sweet, sweet starchy fumes yet!

Well, dumping sand from the sandbox in the pool was good for all of two pairs of chinos and a linen tea towel. But still - there were some cotton kitchen curtains left to iron...what to do?

When Josie told me she was turning her ladybug pool into the beach, it came to me in a "blast of steam" - a favourite feature of my iron.


Although I'd spent a good amount of time arranging my treasures from our cottage weekend in an attractive antique bowl, I grabbed them and dumped them in the kiddie pool.



And then (holds up empty laundry basket as a shield) Josephine very happily pretended to find them, as she had done on the beach two weeks ago. And once again, I'd exclaim over every one, and ask her to tell me about them, as I moved the iron back and forth, and steam tickled my nostrils with the scent of satisfaction from the immediately visible results of ironing, which was so neatly done alongside the entertaining of one very happy toddler.



I'll go now - I've accomplished enough today to take the rest of the day to do things like find the rest of my pebbles and shells in the pool and rearrange them all in the bowl again. I'll leave you with this summer afternoon image, which just happened to present itself - just as the solution to my afternoon dilemma did, and, for that matter, rather like this post.



And I'll leave you with this thought...where do you think I'm posting this from?

(tilts umbrella to deflect bottles of aspirin, pens, sippy cups, and megablocks - rocks on glider, clicking over to Shoewawa and cackling gleefully)

Do That To Me One More Time...

A phone call I made early last week:

(snippets of my side of the conversation)


M: Hello? It's Marla. Remember what we talked about a while ago? What you promised? It's time. (getting excited) And I have a question. I have a little extra money, and can I get you to do a few other things while you're here?...And, what about doing my...Really? That's all? Oh yes please, do that too!

...

M: That's sounds wonderful. (pants a little - just a little) Could you... would you...use Crème Brûlée on them?

...

M: Really? You can do it this Saturday? And that fast? I'm impressed! I'll have the cash ready. I'm really looking forward to this! (Trying not to squeak with excitement.)

...

M: See you then, Jim.

(Hangs, up, looks around, feels the butterflies in her stomach.)






Well, five years after moving in, it has happened.

I no longer qualify for having the world's ugliest kitchen.

Jim and Jimmy did it for me again.

Last fall, the porch was fixed up, and since then, the house must have looked like this horrible trash palace cowering behind a beautiful garden. Kind of like we lucked into the garden, like we didn't deserve it, because Hey! Who would have that bizarre blue as a porch colour, mixed with some raw wood and some leftover brown windows if they could help it? Get you priorities straight, people! The windows in the house have been getting replaced one or two at a time, as we can afford it. The living room window, one of the more decent (and working) windows, will be one of the last to be replaced, so the fresh beige new ones that really open and close and can be cleaned really easily (although I don't do it often, natch), mixed with the old chocolate brown and blue trim combination downstairs, in conjunction with the patchwork porch, created an eyesore like no other in the neighbourhood. The two nice upstairs windows were like twinkly blue eyes above a rotting smile. In fact, the whole house, over the years, has been getting a makeover; but with a toddler, mostly what we can afford and feel like doing right now involves paint. And while I hate to contribute to the beigification of Toronto, I have my reasons for choosing it. Being sandwiched in between oh so tasteful neighbours with money up the wazoo was a consideration, but so was the fact that sometimes, the important thing is not the material, but the living.

See it?



Because it was:



It was just the wrong blue. Very, very wrong. Badly done, and wrong. It was worse than it looks in this picture. It was.

And now, with the taupy colour? All you see is garden. A living, creative, beautiful thing that gives me and those who look upon it great pleasure. The house is just a backdrop for something wonderful.


And speaking of wrongy wrongs, the stairs!




I have not been able to choose a carpet for them, let alone find someone to carpet them in said carpet for under $400. And I am sad about that, but...




A coat of Crème Brûlée means I can now at least just wipe them clean. They don't make my heart sing, but they also don't make it cringe in disgust.


But, you know, there's more. The kitchen!

When we bought the house, we thought there was just a lot of cosmetic stuff to fix up, and the inspection supported that theory. The important and exceedingly expensive components like the roof and furnace are fine, but well, the cosmetic stuff would be like troweling makeup into the creases of an octogenarian's face trying to make it as smooth and unblemished as a teenager's. Not going to happen. This centurion house needs to be dermabraded. Actually, it needs to be flayed and have new skin grafted onto it, but that's also not going to happen (see; Toddler, born February 25, 2004). So, we're going to settle for painting things so we just can't see them any longer. You see, if we could live five years with a kitchen that looked like this when we bought it:



We can live with a lot of things. For a while, we just stopped seeing the colours. How the heck does that happen? It just does. You only turn on the lights when you need to. You hang pictures to cover as much paint as possible. You buy stuff that you like to look at instead. You have friends over and pay attention to them, after making excuses for the hideous pre-existing decor. We just have lots of neat stuff, and we're busy, and well, there's that toddler thing again. You know - all of the reasons I had Steve install a dimmer switch in our bathroom after Josephine was born - mood lighting for naked mommies is a good thing. Mood lighting for ugly kitchens is a great thing.

Our home was owned by a woman who was depressed, It had been in her family for ages, and she'd lived in it for sixteen years. She'd gotten deeply into debt. Her son, whose anger management issues are apparent from the fist-shaped holes punched into walls, lived in the basement. His son, about two years old, lived here too. The baby's mother had committed suicide (NOT HERE, THANK ALL THE POWERS THAT BE!), and for years, the owner had an alcoholic boyfriend living here. He did a lot of the renovations. That's too bad, because he sucked at them. The combination of his almost comical ineptness (Crazy Joe was written on ALL of the light bulbs, and pizza boxes were used for drywall in some places) and her bad taste (the decor equivalent of a sweatshirt with bonneted geese on it) means that Steve and I have had some serious undoing to do.

Of all the rooms, the kitchen is the worst. I can see it :

Crazy Joe gets drunk and said "Hey! Let's take a good-sized room with a high ceiling, and build a box filled with ugly fluorescent lights on the bottom, but I'll just eyeball it, and there'll only be lights on two sides, but one of those won't work!"



Then the lady said "Great idea honey! Then let's paint it a dark olive green, but the higher ceiling part should be teal blue. Hey! Use the leftover paint from the front porch! After that, I'm going to stencil stuff all around the room in a really thick oil-based paint on top if it. Crookedly!"



Then Joe said "Only after I strip all the woodwork and don't re-finish it! Then stencil on THAT too!"

Then the lady said "Be sure and slop paint everywhere! Don't use tape!"

Oh, and they had many many such conversations, I'm sure. Like about how she'd never really clean anything, and isn't just using forty-hundred stick-ups a much better idea?

And in that one picture above? Where the young and positive me is on my knees in what is the formerly greenish-aqua mud room? Cleaning poo off the floors? Actual poo? There was poo all over the floor in there. Old, dried dog poo. But now the mudroom is one of the places I keep my fun stuff - my best thrifted finds, my flea market treasures, and I'd painted that ages ago because it was easy. That room was one of the triggers for wanting the kitchen to at least have a coat of fresh, bright paint. We can't afford to do much in there, as really, it doesn't even deserve to be renovated, with its floor that slopes a good three inches and the need for better duct work and insulation...but the kitchen is such an important room. It deserved a little something after all these years, and when I made some money by renting out some of my vintage cowboy stuff to a movie that's filming in town, well, it was time.

This house has been a butt-kicker to live in, because everything that had been done to it for the two decades prior had been done so badly. Now, we can't do everything we want to, but we can do a little. And sometimes a little is a lot. For us, the house is just the container for us and our stuff. Our home is with each other, our stuff is just stuff. But it's good to show it a little love, as the rewards are great.

My kitchen is now brighter and happier, and while it's not and won't be the kitchen I dream of having in my writhing, moaning, "Oh BABY, I want this fridge GIVE IT TO ME and this oven OH PLEASE YES BABY" kind of pornographic appliance dreams...wait...I need a minute to collect myself...there... it's my dream kitchen in that it finally feels like ours. It was the last room in the house that had remained cloaked in the dismal colours of a sad woman. She's happier now, wherever she is, I'm told by my neighbour who is in contact with her. In fact, she's dating a plastic surgeon and has revamped herself as well.

But I remember now that phone call, the one we only heard about. Wherein she called our realtor and told him that she wanted us to have the house, because we seemed like a nice young couple that her neighbours would like. She asked him to tell us that if we wanted the house, we should submit an offer right away, as another was coming in and she was under duress to sell. We thought about it, and decided to. We were on the road, but we started the process, stopping in little towns all along the way to fax back and forth. We were taking a trip to Atlantic City, where Steve won the closing costs on the slots. It was serendipitous. In fact, in pulling out the old photos above, I saw the date on the faxed listing, which I keep in a notebook full of ideas. On it, the first day we saw it - August 14, 2001. How timely.

When we took ownership of the house, one of the first things Steve did, almost as if he was compelled to, was to walk around with his best guitar, singing Buck Owens' "Love's Going to Live Here".


Oh the sun's gonna shine, in my life once more
Love's gonna live here again
Things are gonna be the way they, were before
Love's gonna live here again

Love's gonna live here
Love's gonna live here
Love's gonna live here again
No more loneliness, only happiness
Love's gonna live here again

I hear bells a-ringin', I hear birds a-singin'
Love's gonna live here again
I hear bee's a-hummin, and I know the days' a-comin'
Love's gonna live here again

Love's gonna live here
Love's gonna live here
Love's gonna live here again
No more loneliness, only happiness
Love's gonna live here again
Love's gonna live here again












And so, while I am so very happy with the new paint jobs, I am also happy that I had cause to remember, that just as it was five years ago when we bought the house it's the living inside it, not the material, that matters. Now we have Josephine in it with us, too - and who knows what might have happened if we didn't choose this home?

Love really does live here, and thanks to Jim and Jimmy, the sun is really, really shining in my kitchen today.

This house is just a background for something wonderful, but I'm grateful for the chance to like it a little more.

Happy Anniversary, Home.