Walking backwards, looking ahead.

Well, hello, you Sweaty Horde of Screaming Fainting Groupies, throwing your panties at me like Tom Jones fans. All two of you. Hello, hello. Have a seat. Here, have some tea. Oh - oh...here are your panties back. I have my own, thank you.

First things first. I am very sad and offer a profound salute to my favorite blogger Cat of all time, the beloved Estorbo, who passed away on November 16th last. This rooftop garden cat made me laugh and cry. The news of his passing sent shivers up and down my spine and rendered me speechless. Although I never met Don Estorbo, I felt he was part of my life, because one of my blogger friends, my precious B, is his aunt-in-law. I weep wih her and Estorbo's loving Wooman and Smoothman as we say goodbye to the gorgeousest, magnificientest, larger-than life plus attachant des Blag Cad. Tu nous manques, Storbito. Dayeeen, dayoud. I wish I had a more fitting tribute. Eep. Eeeeeep.

Click here or on Estorbo in the menu on the left, under 'Mademoiselle follows', to get a glimpse into this matou majestueux's world, translated by Marie, the Wooman.

So - I'm not going to explain my absence from this creative writing venture which is my blog. A dear friend told me to come back, so here I am. Turns out I needed this, and my friend did not even know it. I will not call this divine intervention, as God and I have had our differences in the past (believe it or not, we once were buddies, looooong ago) and I don't agree with His divine design. But that's okay, we're still sorta buddies and leave each other alone. Although we speak through mediators occasionally. Anyhoo.

Actually, I've changed my mind about the explanation. I won't bore you with the whole shebang - here's the abstract (you can skip this paragraph altogether if you so desire - it's boring shit anyway...oh - and you can skip paragraph six as well, while we're at it).

So. I was let go in the Spring, left to fall flat on my back from a metaphorical fifty-story building, still gazing lovingly into the bottomless-pool-eyes of the man who doesn't love me anymore as I plummeted to the ground smiling. And I am still reeling, months later, from the shock. I feel broken. I probably am not. The silver lining in all this: I've seen in the far distance, beyond the mountains and the canyons. There seem to be tiny flashes of some kind of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I am still searching my pockets for the map and my flashlight. I'll get there eventually. But for now, these are dark times. There. All is said. Now - on to other things.

It's Saturday. I am sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, the laptop is too high and my chairs are hard and offer no support whatsoever. Let me get the ergonomic chair. Hang on. Ah - much better. 

Olive (my seven-month old puppy, seen below) is circling around the apartment, looking to destroy things and generally being unpleasant because I am not completely paying attention to her. She's a baby, she requires attention and caring and constant supervision and care. I am not an adequate parent/master/pack leader for this adorable, demanding, cuddly demon-child. I am a cat person. But that's another ball o'wax altogether... 

I am your greedy demon-child. Care for me. I am the cutest ever. Look.

Christmas music is playing, and I'm even having the customary Saturday afternoon glass of wine, to get the creative juices flowing. My universe-renowned cretons are cooking on the stove top, it smells really, really yummy in here. I've pulled out the paint chest from one of the seven dwarf-doors in my tiny apartment. Quick note: these doors baffle and amaze me. These doors, which are about four feet high, open to reveal 'compartments' that line the walls, like hidden passageways. If you are four feet tall or smaller and less than two feet wide, you can actually walk from one corner of the kitchen to another between the walls unharmed. Pretty nifty storage. There are three dwarf-doors in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, two in the living room and one in the bathroom. I've been playing with the idea of making door signs and postboxes for each of them. But anyway. I'm trying to keep a grip, here. 

I bought supplies at Michaels two weeks ago, to make Squibbit plant companions. Here's the 1-inch version, made a few years back:

Now - this one, he's sideways, so you can't really see him. But basically, they are my creation, although full credit for the name is due with much reverence to K, my artisty, loopy lovey friend who lives waaaaay to far in Toronto. I miss her.

Squibbits, you should know, live in nature, generally. At least that's what I sense. Don't worry - I'm not off my rocker, they don't actually talk to me and I don't see them hopping around the house with their skinny limbs of wire and pearl-tipped antennae. I've still got a grip on reality. Sort of ;) These little guys have been with me ever since, about ten years back, they suddenly appeared out of the tip of my markers as K and I were doodling one evening. 

I didn't quite know what was happening - they were hanging off a clothesline, upside-down in some cases, and they were just staring back at me, completely innocent, harmless, and somehow, somehow...deeply connected to my very core. They are part of my life, I draw them everywhere, and they are copyright, because I am afraid someone will steal them. Just putting a picture up here makes me all tingly and stressed out. At least I've got the legal disclaimer at the left of this window. Look - seriously, whoever you are - they are our Squibbits, mine and K's, and they are protected by law. Back off with your filthy black stealing hands, you stealer thief burglar.

This one, above, sideways, is a bit dusty. He lives in one of the plants at my sister's, two and a half hours away. His big brother, to be adopted at Christmas this year, is two inches across. Bigger. Since I'm kinda broke, I've decided to make gifts instead of buying them. So everyone in the family will be getting Squibbit plant companions this year. I'll even make one for myself.

I'll be taking pictures of the progress in making the Squibbits. I'll post them later.

A quick hello and big hug to my life-long friend who made me come back here. You know who you are, you Home Depot card, Swedish-talking, Shakespeare-quoting being. Thank you, this feels good. And thank you for bearing with me through my on-again, off-again blogging. Would you like a Squibbit for your plants?

A Different View From Down Here.

I am crouching under the leaves of a lush, bright-green fern, somewhere in the middle of a forest, east of here. My fingers are firmly planted in the moss and the soil beneath me. I can smell the sickly-sweet decaying leaves, the fresh scent of green living things around, the rain coming in a few minutes. She also senses all these things, albeit very differently. She scoots over closer, leans her rounded shape into the curve of my back. I've removed the saddle for now, it's starting to chap her sides, and I have not yet found enough leather to make another one. I think I'll have to ride bareback for a few weeks, until we return to the scrapyard. We've been tending things in this neck of the woods for a few days now - I can't wait to get back home. We're hunched low - someone has heard us, and we do not wish to be seen. We were stuck in the crevice under the bark of the white birch in the middle of the wheat field for hours - someone is stalking us. And we are usually the stalkers.

The wood piles are high and airing out, the barrels are in place, and we should reap most of the silk we need before the frost hits. Fall is always this busy. We must make rounds, make sure everyone's tucked in and has everything they need. Our allies have grown loyal over the years, and even though they sometimes grunt and protest for show, they are steadfast. When we gather around the flicker of the autumn flames, spirits are high and we share smiles, knowing that our mission is accomplished.

I can't wait to get back home. When I do, I'll have to go through the usual pains, turning back, towering over her, and treading lightly. She will return to the palace I have built for her beneath the floorboards, with her brethren, and I will go back to the oven, the yarn, the soapy water and the warmth of my husband's arms.

I am the tiny Queen of this Land. She is my Ant.

Important note: I have borrowed these pictures from various corners of the web, and have not properly credited their owners. I will fix this. In the meantime, thank you for your images, they are amazing and beautiful.

Magnificence.

Today, you computer-using Legion of Lovelies (all four of you), you are blessed with two tributes.

First, I will celebrate my favorite backyard with pictures I took last time I went to this magical getaway which, happily enough, is about twenty minutes away from my house. I last went one week ago and it was - for lack of a better word - magnificent (hence the title of this post). Thank you to V for her hospitality, her patience, her love and the way she sets a table and gives life to plush toys. She makes my life even more delicious than it already is. (Huh - a third tribute which I had not even planned for...)

I will then link to a great hommage to language which was put into the most eloquent words I've heard and seen in a really long time. It's not so much the words themselves individually, but the way they are knit together, the seamless musicality, the yumminess, in short. So sit down, take six minutes and thirty-three seconds to savor this literary soup, and let me know what you think. It goes down really well with hot chocolate, a Pinot Grigio or whatever you have at home, and it is completely up to you to decide which will accompany this feast best. Personally, I favored the classic: a martini. It is Friday evening, after all. It (the literary soup, not the martini) was concocted by the great Stephen Fry, who, among other things, is endowed with one of the most pleasant voices I've ever known.

Without further ado, enjoy the yumminess. First, my magical getaway:

Wasn't that extraordinary? I am in awe. You can smell the leaves and want to jump in them too, don't you? And now, I give you dessert, because you ate all of your plate: have you got your glass of something yummy? Click here, and cheers. *ching!*

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.

A Trip at the Vet's.

Just for the record, this is not my cat. :)

Un p'tit coucou à Romain...

Une découverte pour moi, et maintenant pour vous, Adorés Lecteurs...un lien vers un billet BD de Romain Ronzeau, qui m'a fait rire aux éclats ce matin. Merci à Boulet pour la découverte!

One...two...Five!

Après Boulet, Raphaël B....et tant d'autres (que vous pouvez voir là, à droite, sous "Mademoiselle Follows"), je crois que les talents que je découvre, ça vaut la peine que je vous les partage. Click away, les amis!

Get Your Dialogue On.

Again this year, The Man and I are privileged individuals. We get VIP passes for the Festival d’été here in Québec. That’s right. We’re VIPs. We marched onto the terrasse section last Thursday night, really excited to finally see (after 15 years of faithful fanship on my part) Marseilles hip hop gods IAM. Ohhhhhh the Magic. The Poetry. The Yumminess. Followed, at 11:30, by the most wonderful fireworks I’ve ever seen. They were magnificent, huge, loud, colourful. Two hundred fifty thousand people all chanting “oooooh! and “aaah!” at once, to celebrate the city’s four hundredth anniversary.

And the sea of people – ohhh the sea of people – was quite impressive too. All trying to get in or out of the walls in the old city, buzzing about and interspersed with baby strollers, motorbikes, old ladies, drunk teenagers, and a family of tourists from Jersey trying to get through against traffic – human traffic - in their freaking minivan. No, seriously. I almost walked up to the van to knock on the window - which was tightly closed, thank you very much, so as not to get any locals intruding on their air-conditioned bubble of safety in this throng of people. I would have said:

Me: “Man, hi. Listen. You see this? This is thousands of people going this way, like this (gesturing with both arms towards the back of his perfectly waxed and shiny minivan)…”
Frustrated New Jersey Guy: “Yeah, I’m trying to get through, here, and uhh…well it looks like I can’t get through, it looks uhhh…blocked. I can’t get through!”
Me: “…you see, while you, in your apparently justified attempt of making it god only knows where – are going that way, you’re poisoning us with your fumes. You’re not even moving.”
Frustrated New Jersey Guy: “Yeah, uhuh…but I’m trying to get through, here. Because of all these people, I can’t get through.”
Me: “You look surprised that people are not responding to your fuming look. Why do you look mad? You drove into this!”
FNJG: “ Yeah, I think the hotel is that way. Can you help me out, here?”
Me: “Yes. Absolutely. (Big, huge smile) Stop the car, turn off the engine, and wait it out, man. Lock your doors. We’re going this way. Oh - and the streets are closed off, did you know?”

I often do this – usually on the bus on the way to or from work. I imagine how a conversation would have turned out if I approached complete strangers. Sometimes, it takes exciting paths I did not expect, and I end up having this very detailed scenario/dialogue play in my mind. I always end up surprising myself. (Note to self: invent mind recorder. Possibility of replaying favorite parts of imaginary dialogue potentially interesting.)

So, with complete confidence and intelligent lines, I strike.

Completely Confident Me: “Hey - come here. Sit down. Here - have a glass of wine”
Super Hunk: “ Uh…”
Completely Confident Me: “ Come on. It’s St-Émilion.”
Super Hunk: “ Yes? Ok. One glass. Haha.”
Completely Confident Me: “Hop in my paint-jobbed solar-powered Mini Cooper and let me take you to my surprisingly huge mansion on top of the mountain over there, where the palm trees grow and little green people pop out of the bushes on their segways to serve us cold beer on rubber trays.”
Super Hunk: “I’m...not sure I understand what you’re talking about.”
Completely Confident Me: “Yes, yes – look over there! See? See? The mansion? Mine. With green people. Segways. Come.”

And on, and on, until I usually find really interesting (or raunchy) things to say that I wish I could remember, just to try them out on The Man. That's usually the moment when I snap out of it, and I get off the bus, and crank up the volume on my i-pod for the five and a half minute walk to my new office. Yes! New Job rocks! Yay! I'll tell you more about it some other time.

Last Friday night, we saw NOFX at the summer festival. Punk rock is, I must admit, one of the few things I like because it’s completely chaotic. It kind of felt like we were too “clean”, not trashy enough to be part of the thousands of people shaking their fists and howling the lyrics to the 2 to 3 minute songs booming into our chests. Aaaargh...but to feel alive! It's a good Summer so far, Army of Fans, it's a really good Summer.

Pluck my Twanger!

Note: This post was meant to go live yesterday morning, but because of technical problems with Blogger, it's 24 hours late.

Hello, Boys and Girls.

I laughed my ass off this morning when I was reading CraftyGrrrl's blog. She makes me laugh very often. Some days, British accent + Children's show + sexual innuendos is what I find funny. In this case some people might not...oh fuck it. I am not going to justify finding something funny. (I am not sure how to go about this, so I'm just going to copy the link to this funny thing. Thank you, CraftyGrrrl!) Enjoy.

In other business, I am going to eat crepes for lunch today. I will be happy. I will mentally run to P for protection when someone starts telling me what it's like to have kids. And then I will mentally scream in her face that I find her very annoying with this and I would like her a whole lot more if she wasn't such a fucking smartass about everything, and I will have kept my dignity the whole time and I will walk away a better person. And I will not be arrested for disturbing the peace.

Shrimp is ten weeks old today.

Dear Shrimp,

You poor thing, you have a psycho mom who does things to people in her mind and that makes her feel better. Just a friendly warning - she will probably do this again when you become a teenager. You know, when you insist on wearing clothes that make you look naked/make your real face disappear underneath five coats of concealer and other cosmetic things/refuse to listen to Wu-Tang/do fuck all with your life at 25/total her brand new turquoise Segway.

Your mom will deal with it.
Love,

Your mom xoxo