Wouldn't it be loverly?

I find that when I hang out with the creatives, like KT, Crocuses, Perpetual Chocoholic or Tagger, that something rubs off on me. I get a case of psychological itchies, that I want to do something creative to.

Then I go home and look around me and survey the damage from the localized earthquake that hit my home.

A couple of hours of general tidying later, IF the urge hasn't subsided, then I may sit down in a small, cleared space in the dining room and work on some hands-on creative pursuits, like designing all-occasion cards, business cards, or amusing "pass me along" cards for friends. Sometimes there's a lull and I get to spend a few minutes of my evening, after all is quiet, on the computer, working on short stories or essays that my grip my imagination and bloom into a full fledged story that may go farther then to the end of the block.

It's times like this I think of Eliza Dolittle singing about her wish:

All I want is a room somewhere,
Far away from the cold night air.
With one enormous chair,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?

Lots of choc'lates for me to eat,
Lots of coal makin' lots of 'eat.
Warm face, warm 'ands, warm feet,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?

Aow, so loverly sittin' abso-bloomin'-lutely still.
I would never budge 'till spring
Crept over me windowsill.

Someone's 'ead restin' on my knee,
Warm an' tender as 'e can be. 'ho takes good care of me,
Aow, wouldn't it be loverly?
Loverly, loverly, loverly, loverly

I've already got some one to canoodle with in the cold night air. That is loverly.

I've got lots of chocolates for me to eat and face similar conundrums as Perpetual.

I've got an enormous chair.

Now, I just need a room.

I think this would do.

I wonder if I could make one out of recycled materials ...

Mental Mongo

Child-unit 2 recently asked one of those word-math problems. It went something like this:

If Grandma C says she’s 28, and Papa T, her son is 39, how is it possible?

Good question.

So Grandma C, if you're reading this. Do you have any suggestions?

Perceptions may deceive

Even the rich like their mongo.

Ritchie Rich

"We have responsibilty as citizens to do what we can for each other."

New Orleans chief Paul Prudhomme

This morning, as I walked the child-units to school, child-unit 1 asked me a barrage of questions. Why. Why. Why. Why is it cold outside? Why don't people respond to invitations? Why do I wear that coat? Why is it raining? Why do I go through the garbage?

I'm not sure that this child really wanted, or even was looking for answers to any of these questions. I found that they came so fast, and that they were such good questions that I didn't have answers. In those cases where I didn't have an answer, this child voiced some hypothesis.

"Oh! It's because of this ..." the child would respond as he mixed and matched the questions and answers.

When he asked me why I picked up other people's trash, this child-unit thought that I picked up stuff because we didn't have money. Perhaps that is what he's been told by some well-intentioned relative when they found out about my secret passion for mongo.

It tried to explain to him the concept of generous people putting out their mongo that they didn't want anymore; that they didn't know how to get it to the people who could take it and make it work, or fix it up so that it could be used.

I tried to explain to him that it was like a free garage sale where people can take what they need.

I tried the explain to him that the universe is generous and that I've always had what I needed. (Though not always what I want, that's where A few of my favorite things comes in!)

Then child-unit 1 dropped off into thought, and child-unit 2's voice filled the void.

As I continued on my way after the drop-off, I began to pondered child-unit 1's questions regarding my thrifty exercises. I can appreciate how he is at odds with the message I bring home, and that which his friends, and close relatives may counter with.

I learned it was ok to be generous. That the less one had, the easier it was to be generous and share what a person did have. For me, it was often a win-win situation. Those who touched my life in an anonymous way of leaving road-side treasures helped me feel rich: rich in friends, rich in support, rich in spirit and rich in hope.

If I eat yoghurt, does that mean I'm cultured?

A good friend, watching out for us dropped off some mongo, and what mongo it was. New to us clothes that fit Child Unit 3 to a T, and toys that will cause a fight between Child Unit 1 and Child Unit 2. (As my mother used to say "Fight! I hate peace!")

We are blessed to have such caring friends.

There is good mongo, and then there is bad mongo

Yes. You've heard me right. There is good mongo, and there is bad mongo.

Nature rarely makes bad mongo. Human kind frequently does. Regrettably I think I made bad mongo tonight.

While preparing for the opening of our back yard park, I've been creating a wee bit of magic in the kitchen. Regrettably I took creativity too far and tried to make something wonderful from something that was already good and tasty. In my attempt I failed bitterly.

Now I have some mongo for the composter.

For those of you who are in the neighborhood, consider this your invitation to attend the party Saturday.

Clean sweep

Come into my home and you may think we are castaways on a reality TV program like Clean Sweep.

The reality is that we do need help, more along the lines of While you were out, or a Debbie Travis show. At least, that's how I'd like it to happen, while I am out.

A couple of times now I've thought that the DH was trying to cover a scheme (he lies like a rug). However, when I return home, hopes high, they are dashed into a zillion pieces, much like the tiny toy landmines that I walk on as I wade a path through the living room.

So, here is Friday night, and I've been surveying the mongo I've already got. I've begun to sort it into piles preparing to pass it along to other unsuspecting adventurers. Freecycle has been a great source of mental relief as I am able to find new homes for my old bits and bobbles. (And make room for more.)

My Friday nights have never been more exciting.

Then again, maybe this is a lucid dream, and I'm really in bed, far away from home, and when I wake up, some one will have put everything just so.

Dream on.

Run the water until it runs clear

Ever have one of thsoe days?

The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid. Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are,the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae.

The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm.

Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Amzanig huh? Yaeh and I awlyas thought slpeling was ipmorantt!

So, for those of you who are feeling in the desert of creativity, write on and don't mind the selplnig.

What I did for love

I saw this entry in another blog and it's got me pondering.

So what is stopping you from doing what you really want to do?

When the dog bites, when the bee stings

I've started a sister blog call A few of my favorite things over at http://mywishlist.blogspot.com//.

In the wake of so many disasterous world events, it amazes me how I can have such a materialistic side. Perhaps that's why I have two blogs; one pseudo-documents my life's realities, the other is about my life fantasies. Both are places for me to let off steam and let the little kid in me have an airing.

I invite you to take a walk around the corner to check out my alter ego (or evil twin sister as I frequently refer to this mind set) and say "hello" or leave a suggestion for my wish list.

Life is the adventure

My house is a bit wild with child-units A, B and C. This is a stolen moment. I actually get to sit down for a few minutes as I have culled the herd and am down to one straggler who's supposed to be in the detoxification unit.

... a few minutes pass ...

Ok. So that back fired.

I had to call the herd cull off.

I now have a full-fledged rodeo-circus, complete with clowns and magic tricks.

Mongo I never wished I'd found

After running the child-units through the rinse and spit cycles, and accounting for toothbrushes, I knew I had a problem when child-unit C decided to play "Hide Mamma's toothbrush."

Ewww. I found it all right, and not in a place that I'd be willing to dive for it. Thank goodness toothbrushes are fairly easy to replace.

It's Sunday night! It's mongo night!

Sundays are the best days of the week, in my book, anyway.

I am well aware that there are thousands of school-aged children, currently, in mass unison, rolling their eyes at me, or giving me a collective dirty look when I say this. Alas, they don't understand, or appreciate the benefits of Sunday night in my neighborhood. Sunday night is mongo night!

Sunday starts off obscurely enough with the ordinary rituals and activities of the day. As the day wears on though, I become more distracted as residents begin hauling their mongo to the curb in anticipation for Monday's city-scheduled pick-up.

By mid-afternoon, just as the week's baking is coming out of the oven, I watch as other adventuring families casually stroll the streets. I carefully look them over and am able to quickly discern whether their true motivation is to take their children to the park, or if that is really just a cover to check out the goods before someone else gets to them.

I don't know if my covert past time is a usual family activity. Like most people, this activity is one secret that is hidden in a deep dark closet away from the scrutiny of social perception. Like most families, my nearest and dearest draw the line at a casual yard sale stop. So, if they ever found out my real identity, I could be shunned.

That being said, a recent anecdote from a summer family reunion went something like this:

"Wow great stroller you have here", said Aunt Lee. "Where'd pick that up?"

Ha, ha, I think to myself, "pick-up" is the right word. "Oh, got that on Richmond Street."

This afternoon as a child-unit and the DH went to the park, child-unit A asked, with a bit too much enthusiasm "Momma, do you need anything from the trash?"

I think I'm going to have to work on his choice of words.

Perceptions

Earlier this summer, while circling my neighborhood, I walked by a utility pole that had a Virginia creeper starting up. I'd seen it grow the year before, unattended, neglected, ready to be ripped down by any pole climber needing to attend to the lines above. I thought this year it needed a new home and I could help it out.

Under the cover of darkness, after my DH came home decked out in his finest biking duds, complete with spelunking light, I asked him to accompany me on a walk-about.

I told him prudence was key to that night's mission. He assured me he would be the poster boy of discretion.

As we walked down the street, he in his reflective cycling vest, me is dark jeans and a dark T-shirt, he still with his cycling helmet and halogen light on, me in crepe soled shoes, I kind of got the feeling that maybe this wasn't going to work.

We pressed on.

Turning the corner at the prescribed place, I heard voices. Darn. Neighbors. An ordinary mongo treasure hunter looks for solitude. Here I seemingly had an audience.

I walked up to the utility pole and stooped hoping to look like I was tying a disorderly shoelace as I rummaged around the base.

I asked for back up. I needed more light. Obligingly DH shone some light on the subject - a halogen light from his helmet. GAWD! I felt like I was at opening night for a movie!

"Discretion" I hissed.

I dug out a root of the Creeper and tucked it away, stretched out and tried to look nonchalant about the whole thing.

I took DH's arm and whistled off into the night, hoping that the neighbors across the street thought I was a drug dealer rather than a character from Adaptation.

All's quiet on the Eastern front

It's been a quiet week for mongo adventures.

I'm hoping this weekend is more eventful.

I did see a pile I coveted on the way home tonight, a really cute couch, totally recoverable, some kitchen chairs that needed just the slightest bit of TLC, however, my hands were full and I couldn't squeeze in one more thing.

Ratz.

Black bagger therapy

Hi, my name is Mongo, and I'm a black bagger (read the book, really!)

This is my story.

I used to only occassionally pick through bags of trash that my DH had set aside to put out. It was a rather harmless passtime, more curiousity about what he saw no value in. In befuttlement that accompanies this sort of activity I'd pull out stubs of pencils, wads of unused, though slightly crumpled loose leaf pages, interesting articles I'd given him to read, and the odd bits of yarn, wrapping paper, seed packets, and miscallaneous doodads.

"These things are all useful!" I'd shriek. "They're usable and have a lot of life!"

In his defence he'd start questioning me "When'd you ever use this? Those are useless bits of scrap. What could you possibly do with them?" usually ending up with some uncontestable fact like "they smell funny".

I'll admit it. He won a few. I conceided a few. The bottom line is though, I've come across more useful stuff, going through the garbage can, OUR garbage can.

It's been an insightful learning opportunity, though one that I prefer doing farther away from home.

This weekend, I found myself teathered to pickings closer to home, and boy, am I glad I did. My DH decided that with the long weekend he'd tidy up.

In all the years that we've been together, he doesn't realize what a super sized button this is. (My older sister tidied my room when I was 14, an event I still regret.)

This weekend, my guts (and curiousity) prompted me to check a black bag he'd taken to the curb. Toys! Toys! Good toys! It didn't matter that the children have seriously lost interest in the items. He threw them out! I continued to rifle through the bag, and pulled out three inches of important papers (that I'd no idea were there, but they were important none the less) and made various piles: Keep, Keep, and Saint Vincent de Pauls. (Clean Sweep has nothing on me!)

After the walk down memory lane, I took a tumble through the recyling bins to see what other gems were calously cast aside. What was this? A tube. Oh genie, what's in the tube? The Andy Gibb posters of my youth? Oh no, nothing as important as that, he claimed in his defence.

Just my Masters degree.

While you were out: DYI Labour Day

Ha! Now I understand why they call it Labour Day/Labour Day weekend. With less than an hour and a half left to the "long weekend", the only thing registering on my body that doesn't ache are my fingertips.

I ran about ten yards in the literary marathon, and got shin splints and had to pull out.

Thus, with an entire three-day weekend opening before me, and my creative energy whirling about, untapped, I decided that my MC was looking a bit anemic and took it to Canadian Tire for a bit of exercising. I got two gallons of paint.

Recently fortified with a multiplicity of hours of home makeover viewing, I had a vision for the *fairly blank canvas of our dining/study area.

* I say fairly because the latest edition to the family is a bit Picassoesque to the formerly nude walls.

Now our dining room/study hall has a lot more, um, color to it. It's a wee bit brighter, and two toned, and seems to be lost in a time zone as the 1940s meets post-modern. (That's what I get for asking my very hetro DH for his input on paint colors.)

Alas, the room is not done.

Like any one who's done DIY projects, there are many details that still need to be worked on (including the endless touch-ups thanks to the pint-size Picasso). Translation: See Honey Do list.

Knock knock. Who's there?

I'm new to the blogging world having scoped around the background, being a reader of other's posts since they've had blogs. Now that I'm part of that world, I find it an odd, and errie activity. I don't recognize my public persona in my writing.

It kind of reminds me of an exercise the Mothership did, oh some odd 20 years ago (give or take). It's a strong memory of my youth when she wrote a radio play and had it produced. I have a cassette kicking about some where in the detritus of my basement. When I find it, and am able to match it to the archane technology on which it must be played, I can't help but listen to it and wonder what part of the psyche this story arose from. It certainly isn't representative of the demure old lady that I thought I knew.

Looking at my thoughts over the past week, I can't help but to wonder, who am I?

Keeping up with the Joneses

A couple of weeks ago I got Baby Boom out of the library for a cottage rainy night distraction. There is one scene where Diane Keaton, new Mom, is hanging out in a park and over hears other Moms talking about their child's placement on waiting lists for the best, Ivy League kindergartens. I had that kind of eye opener this week.

I've got a couple of kids who didn't come with instruction manuals, which makes my life um, a challenge. Some days I feel like it'd be easier to program a 1980s VCR clock then to be a parent. This week I could have used that manual with a really good index. This week I needed the skills to address a child's statement that she wants to quit an activity. Oh the horror! The shame to the family name! Imagine the scorn! What will this mean for her later in life?! What do you mean she's not a child protégé?

Reality grip here. Yah. Yah. These notions did float through my head for about an hour. Oh, well, really a couple of hours. Oh OK, make that a couple of days. I was angry. Pouting. Stomping. In my head I knew forcing her wouldn't be the answer. It just took a bit longer for my heart to catch up. Besides, my DH said it best, when, in his most reasonable tone stated, "she's young yet". (He's right, but I'm not telling him that!)

So, with nine lessons already paid for, and no refunds available, guess who's going to be taking lessons this fall! I just have to figure out how to fit into the tutu ...

A few of my favorite things

Long weekend, shmong weekend.

Days are starting to run together.

Here is is September already. What happened to summer?

I noticed in Perpetual Chocoholic's blog that Blue shares my enthusiasm for the pending six-months of winter.

I actually like Fall. It's one of my favorite seasons. I like putting the garden to bed, the smell of snow in the air, the crisper days, ripening apples, the way my sinus block up because of the leaf mould and wood smoke.

With 115 days til Christmas I've decided that it's about time that I started my list of mongo just in case any of you fine readers are at 6s and 7s about what to get me.