2006 resolutions

It's the 'twix and 'tween time as the end of the year draws to a close. I am one of the incredibly fortunate to have the day off from my regular duties of paid labour. I'm home with CU3 this week. CU1 and 2 will be joining us next week for another week of R&R.

The house is currently quiet. CU3 struggling to stay awake in case I do something more exciting then vacuum up the Cherrio/dog/cat food breakfast concoction she created for this morning's snack.

We have a smattering of presents still under the tree as they wait for our New Years Eve party when we're all back together. As DH's birthday has also been saved for the end of the year, we're going to make it an enormous birthday party where every one gets presents.

I took a walk this morning with CU3. It was pleasant, a bit nippy, but that is to be expected at this time of year, and for the next few months. I took my little digital camera with me as I used to kick myself about not capturing a feeling, a picture, a this or that when I was using only regular film stock. The digital medium allows me to take more chances and make more mistakes all for the cost of a couple of batteries. Not a bad deal I would say.

The walk allowed me time alone with my thoughts, as CU3 is not a talkative child. I've been walking backwards through 2005. It's been like walking through an antique store of memories, picking up this curio and that memory. Nothing I'd want to buy or take home with me, but nice to know that they're there.

One sub-theme that's present is my unmistakable approach to life. I've been told it's like no other and I'm just starting to believe that this may be the case. This December I've had close friends, acquaintances and family give me a two-minute roast, recounting something that I've done that has given them some laugh or relieved some level of grief. There's the story of me at 13 bullying the Mothership to our small town's best (read only) hotel in the middle of a nasty winter to sit in their hot tub for a couple of hours. Then there's a story from a relative who told his postmaster how I would mail packages in summer with Christmas packing tape, just to zing the postal system! I do these things without thinking. Maybe that's my problem. I don't take a conscious approach to my creativity. I know that I certainly have a problem with sustaining a long-term project, preferring to attempt something that has almost instantaneous results.

This brings me to one of the Christmas presents I received this year: Letters to a Young Artist: Building a Life in Art by Julia Cameron. Ms. Cameron is widely renown as a bestselling author of The Artist's Way a well-thumbed manual on doing art and making time for everything else. I must confess I haven't read her other work(s), though I know of them and often direct my disillusioned, creatively stuck friends. I'm wondering if 2006 is a year that I am to heed the call for closer examination??

'Twas in the moon of wintertime

'Twas in the moon of wintertime, when all the birds had fled,
The mighty Creator of all sent spirit-choirs instea;
Before their light the stars grew dim,
And wandering hunters heard the hymn;
Jesus High Chief is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

Within a lodge of sturdy bark the tender Babe was found;
A simple robe of rabbit skins enwrapped his beauty round,
For as the hunting men drew near,
the Spirit's drums rang loud and clear!
Jesus High Chief is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

The earliest moon of wintertime is not so round and fair
As was the ring of glory on the helpless infant there.
Great chiefs from far before him knelt
With gifts of fox and beaver-pelt.
Jesus High Chief is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

O children of the forest free, who dwell beneath the sun,
The holy Child of earth and sky has come to make you one.
Come kneel before the radiant boy,
Who brings you beauty, peace and joy.
Jesus High Chief is born, Jesus is born, in excelsis gloria.

Happy winter solstice.

Crumbs

With all the precautions in place, it seems that things are just tanking this week.

My toothbrushes going the way of the dark side. CU3 is home sick. My shoulder is frozen, twisted from sleeping funny. I'm doped up on cold medication to keep whatever is going around from coming to get me as I'm on course again this week. And I had marathon baking scheduled for the community Christmas supper on Sunday. Now I've just found out that my bread maker just breathed its last. I'm hoping it doesn't cost a lot of dough to replace.

Blue Christmas

We light this candle to remember those we have loved and lost. We pause to remember their names, their faces, their voices, the memories that bind them to us in this season.

We light this second candle to redeem the pain of loss: the loss of relationships, the loss of jobs, the loss of health. We pause to gather up the pain of the past and offer it to God, asking that from God's hands we receive the gift of peace.

We light this third candle to remember these past weeks and months: the disbelief, the anger, the down times, the joy and sorrow of memories, the hugs and handshakes of family and friends who care for us. We give thanks for the support we have known.

We light this fourth candle to remember our faith and the gift of hope that the Christmas story offers us. We give thanks for all the support we have known.

AWOL

Tooth brush. Purple. About 5 inches long. Last seen before Hurricane Isabelle got up.

Sigh.

Snow daze

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens;
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens;
Brown paper packages tied up with strings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

I love snow days.

I love storms.

I love the light of winter.

Snow is the Canadian version of Jamacian sand.

Bring it on.

It's a week before Christmas

It's a week before Christmas and I'm bagged.

We just got a foot of snow, all CUs are home, and I'm still getting Christmas boxes prepared to mail out. All I can say is Santa, can I get a little help this year?

On the home front, a lot of fun things have happened. I got a picture I submitted to our local community paper published, and our house won the Creative the lights display for Domestic residents.

CU2 is going to be in a church pagent, as well as the school chorus.

I got my advanced certificate in Business Analysis from CDI/McMasters University.

I finished up a distance education course with Malaspina University-College and Papa Ours is writing his ergonomics exam today.

Most of the holiday baking that I prepared for the Christmas dinner has been chipped away at which means that I'll have to start all over.

What can I say, but life is good.

Oh come all ye faithful!

While outside on my porch this evening for an adult version of time out, I watched a car drive up and what to me looked like try and park in front of the house. This type of activity is relatively normal in our residential neighborhood. What got me to head scratching was watching it slowly drive forward, then back, then forward again.

Seeing that I had a run in with a guy a few weeks ago and was intimidated by how he and his companion sat and stared at me while I was entering the house, I grew a bit concerned.

As I watched the peculiar event unfolded, a window rolled down. "Is this 2631 Pinard Street?" the passenger asked.

Ya, I responded, not sure what was up.

"Do you have a manger?"

"Yah! Around the corner" I responded.

"We're from the church. Bulletin organizers."

"Oh, that explains everything."

Two week ago there was a notice in the church bulletin asking for a display of crèches throughout the community. I thought it was quiet doable and set out to work with some of the found mongo: two parts of IKEA shoe shelves, a wooden toy dish rack, and a bail of hay started things off. Some wrecked wood was salvageable and the forms of Mary and Joseph were cut out. The mothership offered to paint Mary and Joseph. Baby Jesus'll be a two-by-four that will arrive before Christmas.

This last Sunday there was a new note in the church bulletin saying that they've asked for a dialog about the visibility of crèches and everything's been quiet. I sent a response, via the collection basket stating "we hear, and we responded!"

Now our address will be published in the next church bulletin for people to come and see.

Oh come all ye faithful!

Huh?

With 20 days to celebration time, I'm already brain dead. I think I've been walking around this way for a couple of weeks and can't shake it. I've talked to many people about this phenomina and have several hypothesis, grey days of winter setting in being the most popular suggestion.

It is true, we've had a few snow days, mostly everything has melted within a week though. I sincerely wished it would snow more because it might help me get in the mood for the season (though now that we have the tree up, the cats are getting into the season, trying to help us rearrange the decorations).

Very slowly I've started on the massive Christmas baking activities. I'm trying some of Grandma C's fudge (my first fudge ever). CU-2 has helped with the Rum Balls and the Lace Cookies. I've got to get a move on if the CARE packages are going to get out before Christmas.

Phew!

It's not like nothing to write about has been happening!

A visit from my brother and his family, a trip to close out the family cottage, a first snow storm with snow that has stuck (for now. They're forcasting rain for Tuesday) and a short week with CUs 1 and 2 rolled up the week.

There was also the commando baking that I did for the church bazzar and a day trip with a girl friend.

It's been a good week full of stories that need to be digested and spit out.

While you wait, here's something you may wish to consider: http://www.geist.com/contest.php only five more days to go! (And yes, I'm hoping to enter a story into this one if I can get motivated to get it out of my head.)

It's starting to look a lot like a tacky Christmas!

We've just had our first snow (it didn't stick though) and have had a beatiful, warmer then average weekend which motivated me to work outside again.


While not nearly as creative as this display, my DH and I are working towards achieving a spectacular vision this year; as one neighbor delicately described our attempts
"It's ah, er, a layered look."

Each week DH and I assess what we've done and the type of reaction (or lack their of) that we received the previous week. Saturday morning we page through the hardware store sales and discuss strategy for the weekend. This was the best yet!

Proof

I love my digtal camera!

Finally, I have evidence on Baby Picasson.

Book 'em Dano!

Cartharthis (and Pavlovian responses)

WARNING: this is an official rant. It's sad and may make some readers very uncomfortable. For me, I think it's an attempt to exercise my demons at last, I hope.

* * *

My birthday is more or less around this time of year. Too close to Christmas is what I frequently heard.

For many years, and two husbands later, I've held the firm position that I don't want to celebrate my birthday. It really has nothing to do with being hard to shop for (which I am, I guess), or dealing with getting older (a fluke this year [bad math on my part] had me celebrating a year older than I really am. I get a year back woo hoo! But I digress). While walking home the other day I figured it out. I have consistently had a bad birthday, so I think I've come to the realization, why bother to try and celebrate it?

* * *

I was turning seven or eight and the Mothership and my sister planned a party for me where I could invite school friends. I guess I was oblivious to my world around me and invited boys to my party as well as girls. A handful of girls came, as did one boy; the one I had a serious crush on. (The one I learned to like root beer for.) He was mocked. I felt bad. It was not a good scene.

This did nothing for my social ineptness.
* * *

For my 9th birthday my mothership and I had gone shopping for a new winter coat. We found one at Buster Brown's. This wasn't just any winter coat. It was a camel colored dress coat with a rabbit fur collar. The kind of coat you only wore to church on Sundays. The kind of coat that would make you feels like a princess. My mother saw how much I loved the coat, but tactfully told me that the family couldn't afford the price. I knew that. (Perhaps that's why I'm still price conscious.) We walked out of the store with my mother suggesting she'd talk to my father.

Many weeks later, my sister and I were having a joint birthday party. It was a great day for her. I think she was turning 16. I was eight. I was so excited for my sister when she received an enormous, oversized box. With much anticipation, she opened it. I was stunned. My jaw dropped. I think I screamed, and then I ran away in tears. She got the coat. THE COAT. My nine-year old mind processed the whole picture in seconds. She's too big. I had tried on the coat. I would never have fitted her. This was a mistake.

Well, yah. It was a mistake of sorts. Some one in my family wanted to play a joke on me. I didn't take it well.

* * *

My sister and her boyfriend were home to celebrate her birthday. Tradition was that the birthday girl got to pick-out one of the roses on her cake. I got one because my birthday was next.

I'd carefully eaten away all the cake around the rose and excused myself to go to the bathroom so that I could fully appreciate the experience of the sugar rush without interruptions. When I got back to the table, the candied rose was gone.

Some one had convinced my sister's boyfriend to hide it in a napkin on his knee.

I felt betrayed.

* * *

Sweet sixteen. Bah. I was in Washington, D. C. for my 16th birthday. I had to write mid-term exams all that week. My Mom's friend tried to make it an event by taking me to see Cats. I didn't enjoy the outing as much as I could have because I had an English and Math exam the next day.

I remember listening to the radio thinking that maybe one of my siblings would call me to wish me a happy birthday. Nope. Not even a card.

* * *

I learned to stop setting myself up for something for my birthday. My parental units slowly got the message.

During undergraduate studies, the Mothership gave me a cake first thing in the morning and I had birthday cake for breakfast. That was fun. Then I went to school.

* * *

When I moved into my first family home with my first husband, I tried to have a birthday part for myself and the refrigerator died.

Bad luck, or is the Universe sending me a message?

* * *

Birthday's baa.

All in the family

My DH tells me stories about his brother-in-law who is a member of the military. I heard about the war games that these guys play in order to be hardened for what they may encounter on the field of battle. I also hear about what a fine father this man is to his children. No doubt his miliitary training has provided him with much fodder to draw upon.

I experienced my own kind of parenting boot camp in the last 14 hours. Upon completion of my first tour of duty, I begin my second one at around 5:00 as I complete the loop homeward, picking up CUs 1, 2 and 3.

Besides my regular duties including review of the troops, and CP duty, last night, was extra special in that just as I was turning in CU3 called me up for an extra tour of duty.

...

It had begun earlier that evening, CU3 had begun complaining of a face ache. As I began doing the research to identify who would be open to provide emergency services on November 11, I began to think of other causes. CU2 had a series of ear infections earlier this ear ... it was possible. I knew what to do if it was ...

...

For two hours I did triage and tried to lift the pain. At 2:15 I decided that I needed back-up and took CU3 to the hospital. Two hours later, CU3 was back in his own bed, pain free. I had been up for 21 hours.

Baby piccasso

Who knew that Minties Girl Guide Cookies could have alternative uses.

Grandpa D got conned into supporting CU-3s efforts to support her troop in cookie sales. (He walked away with multiple boxes of cookies - thus the conn.) He made a teenie tiny mistake offering the two-fisted power eater a cookie. (In this house, we never just get one cookie. The house rule is if you've got two hands, you get a cookie for each. Life is just better that way.)

I'm guessing the sugar and caffine kicked in around the third cookie, 'cause her artistic side kicked in and she decided to trick-out the house.

Who knew that Chocloate Minties not only tasted good, but could be used as a replacement for charcoal sticks for drawing.

All creatures great and small

Seems that with Fall and cooler weather arriving, what I had anticipated as a welcome break from outdoor work has been replaced by an increase of indoor work.

With three CUs in our cottage-like home, there is no end to the creative exploits, which they pursue. Currently, to my left, we have a light rapid rail system being rebuilt, to my right the foundation is being dug for the new addition to the former cat house-cat hotel complex. The resident architect has told me that Cat City will be ready for occupation before Christmas.

I ask, where are the building permits? Where were the environmental studies?! Where was the notice to the community? I want to call my councilor!

Tricks and treats

Well Hallowe'en 2005 has come and gone. CU-3 has made the rounds and got a fair load of loot. The neighbors were incredibly generous, having bags set aside for the NCUs.

CU-3 was slow to understand the process of giving and receiving. In the begining she only wanted to give loot to kids. Actually, in the begining, she took my explaination, that we were going to throw candy at kids, quiet literally, beaning a few. She's got a good arm on her.

I was able to wrestle her into the design-modified costume. Instead of the colar design I'd created, it became a tutu, much to the confusion of her fellow trick-or-treaters. She was quite happy with it though. (Grandmas, pictures are coming. They just got dropped off for development today.)

* * *
On the flip side of things. I LOVE HALLOWE'EN. Not for the dressing up, candy and transformation of our neighborhood into something magical for an evening, but for the monogo that gets put out; it being the end of the month and all. This weekend past was especially good. So good that even the DH joined in the fun after a block stroll with the doglet.

Last year I got castle parts (that eventually went to a neighbor for her garden). This year I picked up a metal bucket in excellent condition, to go wtih a bucket of tools, a tacky sculpture of a dog and a boy (CU-1 is going to love this!), a deck box, a wooden high chair (that's pretty low to the ground), a ladder for CU-2's bunk bed, a single futon frame, and various odds and ends that I'll put to use in the garden next year.

For those of you with cable, think Weird Homes!

Can you see the difference?

Vengeful people everywhere are always imagining what they would do to some one else. Perhaps that's the motivation of CU 3 (child-unit 3). Maybe she's seeking revenge on me for all those nights I refused to pick her up and she had to cry herself to sleep. Or perhaps it's some in-utro trauma that I inflicted on her. Then again, it could be bringing her into this world, and in particular, this crazy house, where the nuts don't fall far from the tree.

Hey! Look! There goes the point! a friend once said to me after an equally long introduction to a fairly short point.

So. Here goes: I'm never sure which is worse - some one using your tooth brush, or some one using your tooth brush to clean the toilet.

I caught CU-3 not only using my tooth brush for dental hygine, I found her swoosh swoosh swooshing it in the toilet before the spit and rinse.

Leaves me speechless.

Smart ass

They have smart technology ... what about technology for the <> end user? Like toilet paper despensers that despense just enough TP as needed. It would require interaction toilet based on volume, and length of visit.

Oh my gawd. I think I've been taking too many Business Analysis courses!

It's a living ...

What does it say about one's life when one has to direct one's dear husband to one's blog to catch up on the daily comings and goings?

Update

DH just came in and surveyed the pizza dough I just spent the last 3 hours working on. It's funny.

Funny? I ask.

Ya. Funny.

Ha ha? I hope.

Start over. He says.

Cheese and crackers.

Commando baking

Commando baking. That's what my DH calls it. He labeled it after several in-and-out missions in the kitchen that left the kitchen in a state that looked like, well, a bunch of commandos had their way with it. Or so is my understanding of the term.

I vacillate between liking the term and using it proudly, and feeling ashamed that he feels that I'm not tidying after myself. (Really though, after midnight the maid is sent home!)

Tonight is a commando night. After getting child-units (CUs) 1-3 through their paces (starting off with picking up CU-3 from daycare and returning to school with CUs 1 and 2 to pick-up forgotten homework, dealing with a missing eraser (turns out it was in CU-3's mouth all along!), helping to writing a letter to a pen-pail in France, and learning all their is to know of the lifecycle of a hamster), I finally I get to start in on THE LIST.

Tonight's list runs something like this:

• cake for neighborhood child-unit 4 (NCU-4)
• pizza skins for NCU 4 and 5 who come Tuesday nights as that's homemade pizza night
• cookies for CU 2's Brownie meeting
• rose costume for CU 3 (I still have a few days on this one, so that might fall by the wayside)
• my homework for a weeklong professional development course I'm taking
• my homework for an eight-week professional development distance education course I'm taking
• my homework for a bi-weekly music class I'm taking

And I'd like to get to bed before midnight.

Mental cha cha

Fall is definitely here. Maybe even winter, though that doesn't officially start for another few months. I went to bed with the radio playing in the background, hearing that not only did I miss the announcement for first frost, but we're to get snow too. Oh swell. It means that the slow shift into digging out the seasonal garbage bags of mismatched mittens and fur-frosted tukes has to be done much sooner, then much later.

It also means that I have to spend the time that I can outside to get the garden in shape for next years plantings and for this year's ice skating rink.

With all the children home, I may be able to conscript them into helping me. Sometimes I can pass it off as a Tom Sawyeresk activity telling them that it's sooo much fun that they really want to participate. I'm pretty sure I can count on child-unit 3 (CU-3) to help me with quality checks and to give me feedback as to my skill at any particular task I turn my hand to.

For example, for a family of five we have a fair amount of laundry surfacing from the basement, requiring processing at any given time. As a treat, I sometimes do this task in front of the television. Well, apparently me folding laundry in front of the TV is about as successful as doing homework in front of the TV. Too many distractions and not enough quality coming from the task.

This is where child-unit 3 comes along for quality checks. CU-3 looks at the piles of sorted laundry and will begin to remove and shake out those items that do not meet the quality standards.

I think there's a career here.

Don't get any ideas

This link was sent to me by a good friend, I'm hoping as a source of amusement.

What we both agree to, after careful study of the site, is the aged and old question why. Why would any one dipped a stuff toys in wax to sell as an air fresheners?

Cowboy cards

Well everyone, it's round up time!

Don't think I'll have too many more days to work outside with fewer than the five required layers of clothing attributable to one of our winters so I decided to take advantage of the greyer, but clearer skies to get out and survey the property and attend to some of the rites of hybernation.

I'm happy to post that the marshmellow plants bushed out really well, but the harvest is a bust. With too much rain and not enough time to take off the crops, we have unusually moist baby marshmellows. I told the eldest child unit that we could pick up some of the "seeds" and save 'em for next year.

She was a pop'lar kid

Here it is October and I'm just plum run off my feet.

I haven't started Hallowe'en costumes yet, though I have started (I'm actually mid-way) through my Christmas shopping planning. Now aren't those skewed priorities?

In my house choosing a Hallowe'en costume is a particularly challenging task. It seems that each year the child-units decide to try and stretch their creative boundaries and my skills as a designer and carpenter. Over the years I've designed the following costumes:

• generic insect
• grasshopper
• lady bug
• butterfly
• turtle
  
• ray of sunshine
• a hula girl
• a Poplar leaf
  

This year, child-unit three is joining in the fun and is going to be a rose. A rose. Where do kids get these ideas? (Truth be told, I thought the grasshopper and Poplar leaf were weird requests.)

I'm wondering if I could bring up the breeds of roses. "Oh honey, do you want to be a Don Juan a or David Austin rose?"

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone

Lately I've had the "I dream of genie" theme song running through my head as an earworm. It's not a bad tune, a bit monotonous though.

The last few weeks have found me away from the computer and caught up sorting through the seasonal mongo. For example, this last weekend, I was out in the garden, looking for any treasures that may still be eatable. Having not had the hard frost that usually around this time of year, we pulled out another three cucs (we're at 100 + for the year already). There's still Swiss chard, a second pumpkin, cabbages that never headed, hidden potatoes and pole beans that are too woody to eat, but should dry nicely and serve as seed for others next year.

And, then there's the fabled marshmallow plants that haven't bloomed, but must be very close. You see, last year a friend of mine dropped off a stock of Brussels sprouts. The sprouts were damned good. Fresh, tasty and just the right amount of skunkiness to off set a bit of lemon juice. Mmm mmm good.

The stock hung around our indoor compost bin for a few days and was making it's way outside when I got a foolish idea. The kids were coming home after a week at their other home, and, well, I guess I was feeling a bit giddy. I took the stock, embellished it with a few baby marshmallows and planted the stock amongst the potatoes.

As a side note, earlier this summer, their local grandparental unit had dropped off a Peeps import - Stars and Stripes marshmallow treats (though I could be mistaken with Little Debbie's products). Child unit 3 had decidedly had enough and pitched it to the ground to bake into the asphalt when I came across it and planted it in the garden. I had told one of the neighbor child units "If we're lucky, we'll get a marshmallow plant". I think it was one of the few times child-unit 1 actually listened to what I was saying and later held me too it, checking in on the status of the plant.

Sooo, this time, when the kids got home, I pointed out the plant and they swooped down like vultures. That thing was picked clean in seconds leaving the barren stock. Child-unit one, clearly not having my gullibility gene looked at the stock and started commenting about the lack of root system. I think I went into some baffling cow manure about hydroponics plants at the time. Enough to confuse the mind of any scientifically advanced eight year old.

So, now it's a year later. I've not been able to replicate the stock results and I cannot find any one who has planted the base stock delicacy. I have loose-leaved cabbage that may have to do this year. I wonder if I could entice my friends over at Artistic Enhancement Creations to give me a hand with this one ...

Thanks for giving

For all my Canadian friends and family, Bonne Action de Grace!

This weekend allows me to reflect on the bounty I've received throughout the course of the last year. (That's not to say that I don't do this type of exercise more often.)

It's been a hell of a year. I have so much to be grateful for. The universe has been incredibly generous both in material finds, as well as emotionally. I'm very thankful for having greater contact with my extended family and of my friends whom I have the honor to include as family. They have provided immense support through some very challenging times. I appreciate

To you all, I raise a glass this week to you and give thanks.

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.

Water cooler potty mouth

As heard around the water cooler today: Why are hemorrhoids called hemorrhoids? Why aren't they called asteroids?

I'm in training for a literary marathon

A friend has given my one of the greatest compliments of all times; she's invited me to participate in a 3-day novel writing competition as a joint activity Labour Day weekend. (Another friend invited me to blog with her, but I was "une grosse poule froid" to do anything about it, until starting up Mongo Adventurers in a fit of crackling creativity).

I think it was the same crackling creativity or perhaps the high of birthing a large deliverable at work that got me to agree to dispose of my long weekend to long hours of writing about a period in a family's life that she'd been living with in her head for over 14 years. Or perhaps her story was just one that was too good to leave alone, as she teased me with tantalizing bits during a morning debrief, followed by an afternoon chit chat. One thing lead to another, and now I just can't help myself. I've been sucked in.

I have few expectations of the exercise except to spend several hours before the computer, climbing into a world of characters that I readily see. I hope to be able to capture their story as the picture plays before me. It's going to be a bit of a ping-pong type co-authoring exercise. I liken it to the experiment that the CBC did last year with writers from each of the 10 provinces in Canada, having each write a piece of the story as it traveled from East to West.

My co-conspirator and I are still working out the kinks of the story that are allowable (like creating an outline, like having an agreed to plot, like identifying who's going to do what). With two lunch hours left to hash it out before we begin, I'm starting to feel vicarious nerves that she's been carrying since pitching the idea. Three more sleeps (or two and a half if I'm to start the first leg of the race as of midnight Friday). Hooh boys.

RTFM

I've had a weird fascination with a TV program available on satelite dish. It's called Miami Ink.

I'm of two minds about tattoos. On one hand, I want one. On the other hand, I would probably never get one. I don't want to be a respectable old lady at 80 with a tatoo on my backside that I then regreted, because I'm the kind of gal who wouldn't get a sensible tat of a coy fish or a departed loved one's name on a shoulder, oh no, not me.

Not since watching the summer Olympics a few years back when there became a run on the "Made in the > enter your country's name here < " tattoo craze, did I really start thinking about tattoos and whether I'd have one or not. Since I saw my first tattoo (on Leon's fore arm when I was four), I kind of had a prejudice about who had 'em, who got 'em, and was always curious why some one would do that.

Having spent a decade in er, a non-mainstream relationship where the norm really wasn't ordinary (back then anyway), my prejudices were put a side and became main stream to me at the time.

Re-entering the real world (or the rest of the world you all see), I've begun to see that tattooing has become much much more mainstream. 30-something mothers-of-two are now getting pasley patterns permanently inked across their backsides, showing 'em off during coffee clutches.

Which brings me back to my own fantasy of this form of permanent adornment. To get one or not is one issue. The bigger issue is what to get? As previously mentioned, I like the idea of "Made in ...". It's cute, short (and thus less painful - in theory anyway), descrete (depending on where you have it) and somewhat patriotic while not going overboard. However, that's not what I'd get.

So, that naturally leads to the question "Whatdya get if you did it?" I think I've come to a definitive answer. RTFM.

That leads to the next question "Where?"

Below my naval.


Note
If you are interested in the concept of texted based tattoos Darren Barefoot's article was the starting point for me.

Housekeeping

While cleaning out my email Inbox I came across this gem, which I think aptly, applies:

Always keep several get well cards on the mantel..... so if unexpected guests arrive, they'll think you've been sick and unable to clean.

Sure. I think I'm perpetually ill then.

Part of mongo adventures is coming home with other people's stuff, usually that which they see so little value in that they decide to put it curb side by any means ... trash or treasure sale, tag sale, yard sale, garage sale, moving, everything must go sale. I'm a sucker for picking through some one else’s stuff to see if I can find the one appropriate (or inappropriate) gem in the lot.

Take, for example, one of this Summer’s greatest tag sale purchases: a cat phone. It's not a phone for cats, but shaped like a small, black and white feline. The telephone hand set is incorporated into the model's back, which helps to make the device almost indistinguishable from its live compatriots in the house.

The telephone has been mistaken for one of the three amigos several times, much to the alarm of the humanoid companions (as it has also been used for few impractical jokes). I can't say that any of the other cats have been mistaken for a telephone as their ring tone is set much too low.

That being said, there is little practicality in having a cat-shaped telephone, and after a few times accidentally hanging up on the caller, I can understand why el gato was put on the block. However, as much needed secure landline, it'll do the trick until my next find!

Welcome to Mongo Adventurer

After a lot of hemming and hawing I've finally decided to put keys to the board in a different way to chart some of the currently uncharted waters of my daily life in mongo.

Mongo, for those new to the word is a term I came across in Ted Botha's book: "Mongo: Adventures in Trash". A great read, by the way, for any one who likes doing a bit of urban recon.

Mongo, as I choose to use it means anything salvaged from the trash, something that is becoming a significant theme in my life.

I hope to post here from time to time different stories of what I've come across during my adventures. I do hope you'll joing me for a spell, and perhaps contribute your own stories of great finds.