When in Doubt, Post on Thy Blog.

Campanula Lactiflora

There are many things in life which really impress me. I am, I must admit, easily impressed.

For example, everything which stirs passion in people really impresses me. You could be having dinner with me and casually state that your love of staplers has moved you to purchase, collect and organise them in order of make, model, size and colour, and I would be completely flabbergasted. Honestly, I'd be curious as to why you haven't taken to, say, collectible cars or hockey jerseys, but I'd impressed all the same. Casually having a sip of that fine wine I would have bought, I confess I would also reconsider our friendship or ever inviting you over for dinner again. I'm just saying, there are such things as sociopaths and limits. Just kidding. I don't mean to judge you, or anything.

Cool collections? Let me illustrate.A friend of mine collects iron rests. I think that is what they are called. Way back when, they used to have those on the ironing board to rest their irons on to avoid burning the board. Now we have those fancy schmancy irons which, in addition to being electric, have the useful feature which allows you to stand them up and you don't have to hold them or anything. Back to my friend's iron rests. They are magnificent! That is a collection I have the utmost respect for, because as useless as they are nowadays (unless you still use vintage iron irons just like in the olden days), they are really beautiful, add some serious curio factor to your home (because you have them lined up on a shelf or on small nails on a wall in an esthetically pleasing way), and they are an interesting conversation piece. Case in point: I've just written a whole paragraph on them and it's not even my collection. Kudos to my friend for providing me with this material to work with!

Another thing which impresses me to no end is nature. I am impressed by its raw power, and by the way mankind thinks it masters it and then gets it in the face (such as the BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico). I am taken aback by its fortitude and fragility. But on a more down to earth note, I have always wanted a backyard of my own I could lose myself in, just to be a little more in touch with nature. I think I have explained before that our backyard is shared with the other 24 units where we live, so there is no privacy, really, and decisions regarding said backyard must be voted upon by the co-owners. Luckily, I have friends who have really nice backyards, where I periodically escape.

The Man and I were at our friends' place yesterday afternoon, and they have the most beautiful yard I have ever seen. It's huge! It's got woods in the back, and a garden (which I got to water, with a huge smile on my face the whole time), and little glass lanterns hanging from a tree in the middle which also supports two hammocks. It has a dining table and a picnic table a little further. It has potted plants, hanging flowers, and lots of grass. The flowers in the gardens could be little fairy houses, and there are little fairy houses set among the flowers. They are, in fact, bird houses, but the birds have all these trees to live in and don't tend to live in houses on the ground among the flowers, especially not when there are a bunch of cats roaming around. Fairies, on the other hand, love little houses among the flowers. Or so the Pixies told me. Anyway. I was in heaven yesterday. I laid in the cool grass after a copious lunch, looked up at the leaves stirring above in the trees, walked barefoot in the moss, making a mental inventory of all the things growing, and took deep breaths with my eyes closed. It was quite literally magical.

I felt alive. And it was very, very good.

Boo & Ezio.

Boo. Now seems huge, more graceful and mature. Great mentor for Ezio.

Ezio. Includes thumbs, folded ears and ruckus at night. Cuteness Factor: Eleven.

Still figuring out territory issues and buddy boundaries.

Antipodes.

Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Now you get the title of this post. You don’t need to read this if you don’t want to, it gets graphic and I just need some sort of outlet. Warning: there are no Little Pixies that Rule the World in this post, nor are there references to Boo, my awesome Cat who talks like James Mason.

Early in the morning, I heard noises in the entrance hall and staircase of my building. People going up, people coming down. Stamping their feet. Running. Then I heard an engine running outside my bedroom window. Newspaper Guy comes around 5 a.m. It wasn’t him. So I looked out the window and saw an ambulance, a cop car and a fire engine. I instantly freaked out. About 5 minutes later, one of the firemen took out the gurney from the ambulance and laid a blanket and pillow on it. By this time, I had gathered something had happened to my upstairs neighbor, as he had undergone surgery a few weeks back. I thought he wasn’t feeling well, and that he needed to go back to the hospital. I just did not expect to see him like this. The ambulance tech was practically jumping up and down on him, trying to revive him. He was not responding, and I’m guessing they had been trying upstairs too. He was grey, he was dead, and I lost it.

Why did I stay at the window? I couldn’t look away: I’ve known this guy almost 4 years. We spoke 3 days before in the garage. He was my neighbor. With all my might, I was willing him to open one eye: to turn his head away from me, to breathe, damn it, breathe! He was not my best friend or a member of my family, but his death hurt me deeply. And the image of him, dead on a gurney outside my bedroom window, will haunt me for a long time to come.

I had my day planned out, but couldn’t just carry on as if nothing had happened. I had to leave. I was crying, pacing alone in my living room, wishing I had not seen what I had seen. So I called my friends and left. I spent the day with them. It made me feel better. When I came home, The Man told me he had an errand to run and he’d be back in an hour. When he returned, he asked me to close my eyes and sit on the sofa. He gently placed something in front of me on the floor. When I opened my eyes, there was a black basket with a fabric drawstring top, closed. When I opened it, two little blue eyes were staring at me from the depths of the basket. I closed it again. I started crying. I said to the The Man: “Oh no! Boo is going to kill him!” I looked again, and the two little blue eyes mewed at me. Two little beady blue eyes, in a furry little head with folded ears, the sweetest stripes ever and a spotted belly, and four thumbs on its little paws. We called our new little baby cat Ezio, in honor of the character in Assassin’s Creed, Ezio Auditore da Firenze. The Man had been planning this surprise for over a month with a couple of friends of ours. I had held this little furball when he was two days old, and had fallen in love with him then. But he would never be mine, or so I thought…Now I fall in love with him every time I look at him. I know, it’s corny. But true.

Thanks for putting up with the corniness. When I post pictures of Ezio, you’ll fall under the spell too.

Last Friday started off very brutally and ended with a happy surprise. Last Friday was the first time in my life I cried in panic, in sadness, in surprise and in joy, all within less than twelve hours.

Growing Things.

I’ve never really purchased tools, they were always kind of acquired through different mergers and acquisitions. After we merged our apartments, The Man and I, almost ten years ago, we realized we had lots of everything. We have two hammers, and many screwdrivers of all sizes. The Man owns several micro-screwdrivers for computer geeks. Okay, not just for computer geeks. I’ve fixed a few sunglasses with them. My screwdriver, however, was the kind where all the bits are conveniently stored in the handle – efficient. We somehow found a one and a half foot-long screwdriver in our toolbox, and still don’t know where that came from. We had two dressers, identical, funnily enough, and two pails, and…you get the point.

Since we’ve moved into our really nice condo, I’ve proudly dug my very own flowerbed which, I must admit, is really cool. I was scared. The farthest I had ever been in growing things were the flower boxes I wasted money on when we rented our apartment years ago. The balcony was way too windy for lupins and the only thing I could grow in there were geraniums. Tough little fellas, albeit sticky.

In my 20 by 4 foot flower garden, I have tulips and astilbes, and a bunch of other flowers which I vaguely know the names of in French. The other flowerbeds in the common yard are tended to by a company we pay with our condo fees. But not my garden. It’s all mine. I weed it, water it, and no one is responsible for the way it looks but me. I’m kind of proud of that even when, like today, the weeds are taking over.

So today, besides buying a nice basil plant, I purchased a tool. I think it’s called a border cutter. It will enable me to cut the grass around my garden ever so slightly, which I will do at a 45-degree angle inwards, so that everything looks neat and well taken care of. I will weed, and turn the soil over, add a little bit of top soil, and see what I can separate and what I can add.

I love my little private space, and am looking forward to this week’s nice weather.

Dust.

Sunlight is flirting with the floor, sweeping over the lines and mocking the hour and the trance she has settled into. It teases the dust into shape, making little rainbows of sparkles. Whispers of things past roll by, and the colored specks fall back down in a heap. There is hope, she thinks, half awake. She stretches, looks around, and sighs. What now?

You are not old yet, Silence whispers back. Give yourself some time to figure things out. She rolls over and closes her eyes. An unknown voice crawls into the folds and wakes ancient fears, making itself so present and pushing past the mundane. It breaks the calm: it shouts.

Wake up, now. Stand up and take charge.

Eggs eggs eggs.

Once upon a time, when I was a child, Easter meant thinking hard on religious themes, being confused about it all and then and going to church for what seemed like a super long time. On Palm Sunday, a week before, I was really excited because that meant that nice lady with a fluffy cardigan gave me a palm branch to make a little woven box with, the meaning of which was completely lost to me. All I was hoping for was that my grandfather would give me his palm branch once it was woven. He was really good at weaving his little box into shape, and I'd try to mimic his moves with great care. (I would not be able to do it today if I had a gun to my temple. Well, I would probably come up with some variation.)

My grandfather had this smile in the left corner of his mouth - I suspect his mind was struggling between being kind of frustrated with me wanting his palm thing (thus not getting the meaning of it all) and finding me cute. I was, after all, the first grandchild in both families. They're always the cutest. He evidently tried to explain the whole thing to me, and I was so impressed about the part where people laid their garments and palm branches on Jesus' path I would think about it every time I walked on anything remotely leaf-like outside. I think I probably got caught once walking on my clothes on the floor in my room. Just kidding.

Nowadays, Easter becomes an excuse to eat chocolate or have a family gathering. To me, it is a great holiday, for now I get four days off to do fun things. This year, we're going to our friends' home for part of the weekend, and the weather is supposed to be lovely. We're talking twenty-two degrees and sunny. Smells like skirts, t-shirts and good music to me. Also sounds an awful lot like little paper umbrellas in drinks and dancing barefoot in the grass. (Although, at this time of year in our neck o'the woods, no grass, alas. It's okay, I'll settle for dancing close to the muck mixed with snow that will one day become grass.) Anyhow, I was talking about Easter. Sorry, I got distracted with this weekend's thing. Back to Easter.

I have been looking for a very cool recipe to make for our weekend feast. I have not found anything that made me go 'wow', so I've changed my mind. Instead, I've decided to make Easter eggs. I told The Man I would be wasting six eggs from the fridge. He smiled and said: "Oh cool when my mom did that when I was a kid it looked like a serious pain in the ass." And so off I went, trotted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, picked the nicest brown eggs from the crate (or whatever it's called), and poked holes top and bottom. Found a bowl, and blew the crap out of them to empty the shells. It was really fun. It brought me back to my childhood, to my kindergarten class, I think.

Tomorrow I will paint the eggs with acrylic, in nice patterns, and coat them with matte medium to make them nice and shiny. I'll make a nice gift basket for my friends and I'll be happy to have made an Easter thing while conjuring so many happy childhood memories.

Right now, there are six eggs drying in my dish rack and I'm working really hard not to stay up till two in the morning to paint them now.

Growing Old.

Loyaux Fidèles,
Hordes de Lecteurs et Lecteuses adorés,

Voilà une note de Boulet qui se passe de mots...Enjoy!
Cliquer ici pour voir la note.

Psst...en passant...vous aimez le nouveau look printanier?

The Dream Kitchen Counter.

There are times when I think to myself it would be very, very nice to have a different kitchen counter. Like tonight, for instance. If I had a different kitchen counter, I would be there right now, leaning on my elbows on its ceramic top, deciding what to make for dinner, listening to some cool jazz, and looking out into the dining room. Right now, I can't do that, because there are cupboards in the way. White melamine cupboards. If I lean on my elbows, my forehead leans on the overhead cupboards. Not so sexy.

They are fine, really. They are newish. They are clean. They have nice stainless steel handles. They provide storage space. But - and this is what bugs me - they close off the kitchen. Plus, when I stand at my current kitchen counter, using the sink, all anybody sitting at the dining room table will see is, well, my breast area. I try to work around this slight embarrassment by leaning over and pretending I am ordering a chocolate sundae. People sitting in the dining room do not usually get the joke, so I have to explain. I know. Embarrassing. I actually have to look under the cupboards to look towards the table. Enough complaining. At least I have a) a kitchen and b) a dining room table, let alone a dining room. And breasts. I have breasts, too. I'm a lucky gal.

My dream kitchen counter involves a few things (aside from the fact The Man does not know about my dream kitchen counter):

1. A ceramic top. Did I mention that already? The ceramic is, preferably, terracotta. Or something equally cool (I know, it's very 2005, but I like the look);
2. Drop-down halogen lighting with nice coloured glass lampshades, preferably elongated hand-blown glass. Red. Or - yellow. Oh no - blue. For a warm look. Not the white, cold neon lighting I have right now.
   
3. A built-in sink. And one of those nifty pull-out hose things. To spray people with.
   
4. On one end, open shelves that go all the way to the ceiling, to put plants on. And eventually, any other knick-knack The Man decides to leave there. He does that.
   
5. On the dining-room side, along three-quarters of the length, a recess so I can have two stools there. For making conversation while making dinner. You know, entertaining. Like this:

   "Oh yeah, listen. Super simple. I marinated these scallops overnight in lime juice and I'm just going to sautee them slightly with these shallots and a bit of Pernod. Oh - pass the anchovy paste-filled olives, please? Thanks. Sorry, I drooled. Haha. Yum. Want some wine? So anyway, I'm thinking of painting this big ass landscape with a very defined Italian slash Mediterranean feel to it, and just having these huge cedar-like trees in it. Can you hold this for a second? Thanks. What? The painting's already been done? By whom? Oh. Modigliani. Right. Haha. I'll stick to Squibbits, then. Can you give me that thing you were holding? No - not that one. The other one. Thanks. Oh! DOWN! GET OFF THE COUNTER! NO! BOO! OFF THE COUNTER - you little %!*&# - sorry. That cat loves olives, go figure. Wait - Honey? Can you bring up some chairs? What? You're killing zombies? It's okay, babe, hit the start button, they'll wait for you! Haha. That man loves his zombies. So...tell me all about being a plant. Do you like being a plant? Is it a quiet, peaceful life? Do you panic when your soil is dried up? I'm sorry, I know I only water you - what - once a week? Yeah. Is that OK?

All I need now is to keep saving up that non-smoking money to make it happen.

On Lamp Posts

On many a night-time walk, I have been creeped out by lamp posts suddenly turning off when I walked past them or under them. I have always taken this as some kind of sign: my mood must have been so dark or negative, I had surely caused this haze of light to extinguish. I invariably get a shiver down my spine, and try to think happy thoughts all the way to the next lamp post, to avoid turning that one off, too. To date, I have not yet made two turn off in a row. Which surely means my control over my mood is exemplary.

This has happened to me while I was walking with friends, but it has most often happened as I was alone. My most recurring happy thought usually involves Dumbledore and his Deluminator.

Tonight, however, a pleasant surprise: as I tread carefully over the ice on the path between the two buildings leading to my street, I noticed it was unusually dark. I looked up, and thought "Hmm. Burnt-out lamp post bulb." And as I finished thinking that, it turned back on.

I will take it as a sign things are looking up.

Creative Juices.

Good evening, Awaiting Gorgeousnesses!

First of all, I'd like to say this:

WOOOO! We beat Russia 7-3! I didn't actually get to watch the game last night, but man, I wish I had. And now, we'll crush the U.S. in the finals. It's the logical thing to do, right?

And now, to quote Monty Python, for something completely different.

Last night, as I was desperately trying to breathe through my nose (which - by the way - is a thing we take for granted, I assure you), I had a great plan. Since I'm the living incarnation of Germville right now, I decided to spread the joy, or at least scare The Man into thinking I was spreading the joy. I wanted to leave him a note which said: "I've sneezed on your pillow. Sweet dreams honey! xoxo" But I got kind of carried away and wrote him a full-fledged, 8-page book on tabloid-sized (11" X 17") sheets of paper. I had an absolute ball! I've promised myself I would scan it and try to post it here, just to show you guys I can draw.

It includes pictures of a naked princess with pink hair, germs bouncing on a bed and a rhyming story, so, I mean, it's a surefire winner, right? It was worth the three hours it took me to make it, just to see the look on The Man's face as he read it. I'll try to get it on here as soon as possible. I'm kinda proud of it.

Cheers, Legion of Fans!