Our House

The first time I saw what is now our house, I said, "Ugh, it's yellow, keep driving!" And we drove on. But our real estate agent said we'd best check it out. I think she knew it was all we could afford. And Mr. Man could actually stand up in it.

Nobody had actually done anything to the house in about 15 years, and it was falling apart. The bank had foreclosed on the house from the previous owners which made it sell at a low price, but, oh, the cost of taking it on! The bushes were growing over the front door, the porch was rotted through, the back mudroom smelled of cat pee, and everything was SO DIRTY!

And, to top it off when we went to move in we discovered that during the showing, an area rug had been put down to cover up a bald patch in the staining of the wood floor. Hours of work that we hadn't counted on.

So why did we buy the house? A big, beautiful backyard, and three cheerful crabapple trees. It was a secret garden amidst a ramshackle dwelling. The pixies were there, they were just asleep!

We have been here eight years, and like so many other home-owners, there are projects that have never been quite finished. Unpainted trim, mismatched door handles, and that one drafty wall that just never gets fixed. Things, I hate to admit, that will probably be left until it is our turn to show the house for a new buyer.

But, Mr. Man, his tool belt, his friends, and their tool belts, have done amazing things to this place. One bathroom (with no shower) has now become two and a half (with two showers); we now have two kitchens (one beautiful family kitchen, and one smaller, cute kitchen for the cake shop). The house has almost doubled in size, and the floors are all (mostly) level.

Yet, now as I look around the house I see paint that needs repainting, windows that need repairing, and a dog that needs...well that's another story. The upkeep never ends. The kid's toys are strewn about, and their fancy drawings cover every inch of the fridge and bulletin boards. Our secret garden has turned into a jungle of bicycle helmets, Tonka trucks, sandbox toys, and broken sports equipment.

But isn't this what we signed up for? To fix up a house and then to live in it? Pets, kids, accessories...all of life's wonderful messes!

I can still see the pixies behind the bushes; the treasures beneath the toys. We live in a happy house, a noisy house, and a well worn house. And I don't even mind the yellow siding...much!

The Therapy in Cake

I never thought having a cake business would bring so many broken hearts to my door. But when you think about it, "celebration" cakes can be remembering a lost one, surviving cancer, a 100th birthday....

Today a large order got cancelled because on her 100th birthday (today) the birthday girl went into the hospital. The excitement of the upcoming party was too much for her. How sadly ironic that celebrating a milestone possibly affected that milestone. Tears were shed on the other end of the phone, and, of course, I gave my sympathy and reassurance.

When working with people, it is important to remember that they are people first, customers, second. Sometimes the warmth of the shop and the sweet smell of fresh baking bring a feeling of rest to someone scrambling to put together a party.

They sit, they breath; sometimes they talk. I smile, feed them sugar, and sometimes lend a listening ear. I am thankful for the opportunity.

"I've lost my Nouns"

I am a mind-wanderer. During random moments of my day, my mind goes off in a funny direction. If you ask me what I was thinking about, it would take a wild tale as to how I got to the topic on the tip of brain.

For example: I am driving into our village, and all of a sudden I think, "isn't it nice to live in a small town where you only have to memorize the last four digits of your phone number?"

What?

I go upstairs three times before I remember what I went up there for in the first place. And I can't blame anyone for distracting me because I am usually home alone.

I saw a female comedian once who said when she hit her forties she "lost her nouns". "I'm looking for the ____. I can't find my _____." The word was there at the tip of her tongue but she could never find it. I am not even in my forties and I'm having similar symptoms.

There was one Christmas my sister and I went shopping for Mr. Man. There was this CD that he really wanted so we went into a big electronics store and spoke to a salesperson.

"Can I help you?" the sales guy nicely asked.

"Yes. I need to find a CD for my husband. I can't remember the guy's name, but he's a country singer, and he sings a song on the movie CARS. [Our son was big into Lightning McQueen that year.]"

"Hmmm." He looks at me, then at my sister, and then at me again.

"His name has the long 'a' sound, like James, or Clayton. Oh, and the song he likes has a short name, kind of odd. A thing."

"The Tick?" he guesses.

"Erm, maybe," I say. But it does sound familiar...

"Brad Paisley. The Tick." he says, assuredly, "I have the same CD. We don't have the song from the CARS movie, though."

"Oh, that's all right, this CD must be the right one." I grab it, thank him, and look at my sister.

I shrug my shoulders. I must not sound that stupid after all!

My sister, during this whole conversation, rolled her eyes twice, sighed, and opened her mouth in disbelief as he correctly guessed what I was asking for. Now, she was rolling her eyes again.

Mr. loved his gift, and was considerably impressed with me.

I don't know if they work on commission in the electronics store, but that salesman should get a big bonus! I have a mental picture of him picking my head up off the floor and screwing it back on for me. And then handing me my CD, of course.

So, anybody out there have their head on straight?

A Small Wind Chime

Just a quick blog about Little Miss's craft today:

I could hear her stretching out great lengths of scotch tape in the kitchen, but was too busy to go and see what she was up to. Eventually she came in to where I was and held this "creation" of elastic, plastic forks and gobs of tape in her hands. She had a big smile on her face as she asked, "Guess what I made?"

"Why, it's a wind chime! Aren't you a smarty pants!" I said. She laughed and laughed and we hung it up outside the shop. We quickly shut the door since it was so cold today, and watched her chime through the window.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and she shouted, "it's MOVING!"

Oh, the pride! She was busting!

I love being her mom :)

Man vs. Toe

Several of my stories centre around how Mr. Man has saved the day. He is not always caped, however, and has his Clark Kent moments, and, apparently, his kryptonite.

A couple of weeks ago, Little Miss had a fall and pulled the nail off of her middle toe in the process. We have never seen her in so much pain. She who hurts herself on a regular basis, had hit her pain threshold. I won't go into the details, but Mr. and I changed roles in that instant.

I went into high Mommy gear, yet surprisingly handled the situation (and my emotions) calmly, remembered my first-aid, and talked her through it. Although my heart raced, I was able to put on a good front and deal with her wound.

All the while, Mr. Man was pacing the floor, increasing in volume and colour, tripping on his "cape", and finding it hard to breath as his Little (Lois Lane, if I may) lay in distress. Doors were slammed, shoes were kicked, and the WORDS! Oh, there were words!

When it was all over, he apologized for losing it, and we had an exchange of raised eyebrows, as if to say, "What the hell was that all about?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, he came back down to size, and carried her upstairs for bed. His muscles were of use once again.

Downstairs, I washed and pressed his cape, put the band-aids away and had a glass of wine.

Cheers to WonderWoman, for once.

A Little Taste of the Irish

While on our holiday in NYC, our hotel was actually in New Brunswick, New Jersey. So one night after a long day of walking, we decided to find some "night life" near our hotel.

I write "night life" because real night life and I do not mix well. I have never felt comfortable in the bar/night club scene, and would walk around like a deer in headlights the whole night despite the caped Mr. Man (an experienced night-lifer) on my arm.

Nevertheless, we were on an adventure! Out doing something different! I am out of character! Bold! Crazy! Spontaneous! We are in a different country for pete's sake!

We head down the main street and can hear the music coming out of a nearby bar. There is a huge, shaven guy standing out in front holding the typical bouncer stance.

We keep walking.

We head down main street and can hear music coming out of a nearby bar. There are stairs going down into the dark basement of a dilapidated building leading to the entrance.

We keep walking.

We head down main street and don't hear anything. At this point my spontaneity is fizzling. As a last ditch effort, Mr. asks the giant bouncer from the first bar if there is any quieter pubs around. He tells us, not in the grunt I was expecting, but in a normal, I'm-really-a-college-student voice, to head further down main street to find what we're looking for.

We keep walking.

But we seriously can't find it. So we turn around again, and head back. But in order to avoid the helpful bouncer (I don't want to hurt his feelings) we cross the street and take the long way back. Lo and behold, we come across this dark wooden door with a sign hanging overhead. It says, "Tumulty's". It was very quiet, but you couldn't see inside from the street (and it was above ground) so I sent Mr. in to see what it was like.

He goes inside, and then comes out, saying, "I think you're going to like this." We go in and are greeted by a friendly barman. There are people at the bar, laughing it up, but no loud music or scary dancing. There were old wooden beams throughout the ceilings and walls, and even the booths themselves had the worn, wooden, rustic look. They had little candles on the tables, and I felt like I was in The Carrag, from the movie, Leap Year. (FaVouRiTe!!) The TV had the sports channel on, and the smell of the fryer and pitchers of beer were in the air. I was just waiting for someone with a thick Irish accent to come around the corner.

We chose a booth, and a young guy (minus the accent) waited on us. I had my light beer and Mr. had his ale. I was cosy in my dream movie world, and Mr. smiled at me, imagining himself patting me on the head. "That's my girl," he is saying, "Live it up."

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I should tell you that Tumulty's is a real place, and they do have live music and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights. So there are lots of opportunities for everyone to live it up :)

What's in Your Nightstand?

Last night when I went to bed, I found myself on the floor, looking in, underneath, and around my night stand for a pen. I couldn't find the sudoku puzzle book (that I complete from back to front, by the way), or a pen. These are the things I found instead:

- several unfinished Bible studies (gasp!),

- workout shorts I thought I'd lost (and never look for),

- novels my mother gave me (and I said I'd read),

- hair elastics, lip balm, candle snuffer (but no candles),

- Polysporin, buttons, bookmarks, and Fisherman's Friends,

- and one large flashlight to use all of this in the dark.

Missing: one sudoku puzzle book, pens, and the electric fireplace remote.

Someone once told me you can tell a lot from someone's junk drawer. But what about a night stand/side table?

For me it is a special place, often forgotten, which greets me during the night when I can't sleep. It supplies little cures for bad hair days, small cuts on Little Miss, and a hiding place for the unfinished. At times, it holds Mother's Day cards, candies, and other treasures from my children. Other times; a dirty sock, snotty kleenexes, and strong cold medicine.

So let's confess: where is your place to stash things? What is hidden in your night stand?

Excerpts from Halloween 2011

Isn't it interesting how siblings can be so different? A mother of six told me just this weekend that no matter how many kids you have, there is always a different combination of family genes in each.

My two children are almost direct opposites. One is bold, out-going, excitable, and on the straight and narrow, dragging everyone along behind her. The other is quiet, shy, sweet yet sneaky, and definitely a follower.

So as halloween approached you can guess one was counting down the days, and the other was ignoring it.

"I'll just hand out candy with mom," my son says, and ignores any costume ideas his sister threw at him.

"I want to go as a pirate...no, a princess!" Little Miss exclaims, and imagines the haul of candy she would get. "No worries," she looks at her brother,"I'll get enough candy for both of us!"

But, come halloween night, amidst creating jack-o-lanterns, and hanging up hockey-tape-spider-webs on the front porch, my son decides maybe he does need to go out after all.

"I want to be a chain-wielding-ghost like on Scooby-Doo!" he says. And Mr. Man rises to the rescue, toolbox in hand, takes the chains off the back of our camping trailer, and finds an appropriate bed sheet for over our boy's head.

They race out the door to join the rest of the kids, and about three houses down, after tripping on his sheet, bumping into a few people (literally), my little ghost comes home, tired, yet contented with his small bag of treats.

The rest of the evening, he hands out candy with his mom while Little Miss greets the neighbourhood and charms them into giving her extra loot.

Magically, it was as they'd planned all along. I just hope Mr. remembers to put the chains back on the trailer before summer comes.