It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to

Lucille pointed out a blog to me yesterday that many of you may already know about called "Inside a black apple". I read a post about the purpose of her blog which she wrote in response to some criticism she received from a commenter about how opinionated, snarky, and hoity toity she can be. I thought her post was a really sharp explanation of what blogs are really all about, which is that each of us creates our blog to be a place where we can come to be ourselves, to record our daily comings and goings, and to offer up our nonobjective view points. Blogs aren't really created to appease the general PC public. People create them, often, as a personal haven, a little world where we can post the pictures we want, share the details we feel like sharing, and swear if we want to.

The fact that blogs are public is only really a side note. A small perk, because putting our personal world out there for others to find us means that people who share our passions, who like the same things we do, or who want to see what we're up to can come and go as they like. People can be voyeurs if they choose, silently observing our sideshows, or they can become an actual part of its landscape. How brilliant is that? Why are new blogs being created every day? Because they're brilliant!

Eh, anyone who comes here knows that I like to run off at the mouth pretty much for hours on end. I used to do this to my friends all the time. Grab on to a collection of subjects that seem about as diverse as the religions in this country and weave them all together, excitedly dissecting our humanity. Maybe my friends like this about me, maybe they don't. But here on my blog, I can do what I want. I can write five hundred pages of total crapola. The beauty of it is that if you get tired of it, if you find my words offensive, or stupid: YOU CAN LEAVE WITHOUT HAVING TO HURT MY FEELINGS.

I can do the same to you.

Just about every week or so I write a post that once I've pressed the "publish" button makes me worry. I have opinions, and they are bound to occasionally be completely different than someone else's. Plus, I have no way of knowing who's reading this blog unless they happen to leave a comment. Which lots of people don't. I was thinking about this yesterday, obviously, because of bringing up religion. If there is any topic more hot than religion, (besides sex), I don't know it. All day I was thinking about who out there might be shocked into a coma at the comparison I threw out there between the Mormon and Islamic faiths. On the surface they seem quite similar to me, I want to explore that. So I throw it out there.

Then I get a comment from a Mormon who tells me I got everything all wrong about Mormons. And invites me to learn more which doesn't surprise me at all. What surprises me is that a Mormon is reading my blog in the first place. How did she find me? Are there Islamic people reading this blog too?

I was already thinking all these things when I read the post on "Inside a black apple". I think she really nailed the whole issue. No one should have to censor themselves on their own blog. Period end. Out there in the real world I expect myself to be respectful of others all the time, I try not to swear too much, I try to be polite, even to really rude people. Here on my blog is where I can let my hair down, say what I think, even if I turn out to be wrong. I can cry and whine if I want to, because this is my party here. I suppose I try, even here, not to be a pig headed mean-ass unthinkingly prejudiced jerk. But I refuse to shield people from my curiosity here at Dustpan Alley.

And that's my final stance.

I'll still write things that make me uncomfortable about once a week. But if I wasn't saying them here in my own little dark fairyland, I'd be blurting them out on the streets where no one can get away from me fast enough. Poor souls.

The same principle applies to comments. I don't mind that the Mormon put in her two cents. And I really super duper amazingly enjoyed the other comments from yesterday's post! (Very juicy I thought.) I enjoy thoughtful comments, I enjoy comments that challenge ideas I've put out there, and obviously I love it when people tell me I'm like the Michael Pollan of the retail world. (Well, no one's told me that, but some of you were thinking it, weren't you?)

As a little side note here, I'm actually super surprised I haven't attracted any real hate mail yet. There have been several posts on this blog of a highly questionable nature and I expected to get a whip lashing of objections from someone out there. I don't actually want to get any, I just sort of expected it because my favorite topics tend to be pretty inflammatory.

Well, I just want to say how much I appreciate that some people out there enjoy my blog enough to come back often, and I love hearing from you. I look forward to writing here every single day while drinking my cup of coffee; imagining all of you hunkered down with your coffee at your computers reading my posts and with fists in the air shouting "Dammit woman! Stop insulting my grandma! You're wrong, you're wrong....DUDE, you're so wrong about everything!"

Two haircuts later...

Anyone who found themselves shaking their head at the comments I made about Mormons in my last post will enjoy the rich sauce of irony laid thick on my morning at the hair salon.


A Mormon cut my hair and made me look like a conservative politician's wife. Which made me want to cry. Why do women keep trying to give me bobs that make me look like I should be going door to door about something? I even had pictures with me of my last haircut which was the first good one I've gotten in about two years. She consulted it many times and her interpretations of what she saw leads me to believe that she:

a) is blind as a bat

b) read my earlier post and was getting her revenge for not automatically thinking that all Mormons are the best people on earth.

c) or she's not a very good hair stylist.

Two out of three women working in that salon were Mormons and both of them confirmed that this county is absolutely full of them. You better believe I asked some questions. I found out that only "pure" people get to go on missions, people unsullied by life's temptations. So only virgins are allowed to spread the gospel. Hmm. Interesting. I suppose they can check the women and hopefully take into account that hymens are often not intact due to sporty activity, but how on earth can they be sure the young men are all "pure"? I did ask about men getting their own planet when they die and they said that wasn't really true. Well thank the almighty I got that cleared up!

I had to go immediately to get someone more capable to fix my hair. Although it's much better now (no big shelf in the back of my head), I am tired of bad haircuts and would like to shave off all of my hair. This would unfortunately accentuate my abundantly padded body and make me look like a lesbian pin head. Plus Philip wouldn't like that. It would also show off my scalp which no one but the very brave could look at and not run in fear of getting my leprosy.

I used to have such a good hair life. I guess I should just be glad it lasted so long.



*A commenter in the last post pointed out that everything I said about Mormons was completely wrong. I would like to say for anyone who didn't get this already: I am not an authority on the Mormon religion and am likely to have many misconceptions about them just as most Mormons have automatic misconceptions about me. Maybe if we all keep having dialogs with each other we will come to understand each other better and be more comfortable sharing the planet together while still having different beliefs. This would be nice.

Love is in the air

(plus: (hold yourself really tight) a lot of religious talk)

Well, here they are. The valentine version of the apron. Notice those theme oriented pockets? Normally I wouldn't use a hokey detail like heart pockets, but the truth is, that's one of the things that made the aprons of the thirties and forties cool. The use of pockets as decorative detail. Flower, tea pot, and apple shaped pockets gave that extra something to the aprons that prevented them from being too utilitarian. So what the hell, heart pockets.

Oh heck, I didn't use a close up of this fabric. Maybe I'll do that in the next post. I like this fabric better than the other valentine fabric because it isn't so obviously hearts. Except for the pockets, of course. The fabric is sweet without making me feel like I just ate a pound of milk chocolate. The red is exquisite (I'm a connoisseur of the color red in all its wild permutations).

I've been adding things to the big window as we've been getting them in the store. I am completely in love with these strawberry flour sack dish towels. We just got them in last week and they make me happy.

I had to show you BBQ Sue in her new Valentine apron. Good God! Would someone please give her some fettuccine alfredo? Still, in spite of her appalling thinness I realize that some people out there will think she's the ideal size, but I'm not going to point you out to the mob, OK? If you think BBQ Sue is the ideal size, keep it to yourself. She achieved that size by practically starving to death in the former U.S.S.R. where life is still pretty tough for anyone without gang connections.

Like Audrey Hepburn, she feels sensitive about the fact that she is so skinny and would genuinely like to gain a few pounds. If she could have a figure more like Sophia Loren, believe me, she would have hips and thighs. Oh, and speaking of her look, it's been suggested that perhaps she should be wearing a bra to cover her nipples which are visible through her shirt. It never occurred to me to put a bra on a mannequin unless they are modelling bras. Should I insist on Sue being a wee bit more modest? I mean, it's true that I personally would never let my nipples show in public on purpose like Jennifer Anniston does. But I'm a prude who would willingly dress in Amish clothes if I didn't worry that Amish people would think I was making fun of them.

You can ask almost any friend of mine who knows me really well, I have a thing for religious cultish clothes. I love those little starched caps that some religious women wear to cover their hair in public. Once my friend Lucille took me on a wonderful outing in Berkeley (California) to look at shops and we saw a small herd of women wearing modest dresses (meaning they were mid calf and weren't constructed to showcase breasts) and each one of them had one of those caps on their heads to cover their hair which each one had pulled into a tidy little bun. They all had coats on because it was a chilly day and somehow their coats seemed fashionable. A couple of them had quite fitted ones in nice colors. I couldn't take my eyes off of them. Seriously, I came very close to embarrassing Lucille with my uncouth behavior. Sometimes I act as though I've never been out in public before.

There's a difference between modest and frumpy. I disapprove of all clothes intended to remove any ounce of attraction from the wearer. I refuse to believe that God prefers all his people to hide any possible visible physical beauty. It seems to me like purposely being as frumpy as possible is like spitting on the gifts "he" gave us. Every creature on earth that "he" made preens themselves. If "he" found it so offensive, why on earth would he have given all of us the instinct to clean ourselves, to adorn ourselves, to roll in mud to smell oh-so-earthy? That would just make "him" into a really mean and somewhat stupid all powerful being.

I keep putting "him" in quotations because I don't actually believe in God as a gendered individual. I respect that others do.

I have been exposed to enough hardcore Christians, the real fire and brimstone type, to know that there are lots of them out there who think awareness of any kind of physical beauty is evil. Which is just about the saddest thing on earth. I'm sorry if this offends anyone, but why is it that many Baptist* and Born Again women look pale and colorless, wear shapeless flavorless garments, and look supremely unhappy all the time? One need not apply as much make up as Tammy Faye, or dress as provocatively as Anna Nicole Smith, but one can dress attractively, in a way that enhances the beauty nature gave you without instantly becoming an irredeemable whore. And anyway, isn't God all about forgiveness?

I don't particularly hero worship the Amish, because I suspect there's a lot of badness hidden in their midst, but their women manage to dress modestly while maintaining a certain kind of panache. Black and white are always in style because who doesn't look good in black? Aprons have a way of making women look all at once nurturing yet alluring, useful, strong, purposeful, and yes: feminine. They may cover their whole bodies up, but their garments show off their waists. A classic silhouette. Don't tell the Amish I think they're fashionable though because it might alarm them into dressing like your most earnest born again.

Plus the Amish don't drive cars which I think is just about as fabulous as it gets! I would so much love to drive to and from Portland in a horse drawn wagon!

I'm going to try very hard here not to say anything objectionable about Mormons, but I think they've got everything all wrong what with this secret underwear gig. As far as I can tell, their underwear is made of hair. OK, I know it's not. But how can Mormons expect me to take them seriously when they wear "secret" underwear which sounds like an adolescent pajama club? Another thing I find disturbing might not even be true, but I heard that husbands get a secret name for their wives which even the wives don't know and the husbands can denounce them with this name and keep the ladies out of heaven.

It is continually amazing to me that any women go for this Mormon stuff. While everyone is getting all freaked out about Islam and throwing bombs at Islam's women and children as well as its men, we have, here in this country, a rapidly spreading religion in which women have very few rights as well. Who's objecting to that here in the homeland? There is very little difference to me between Islam and Mormonism. Both have this whole no alcohol deal going on, both are extremely patriarchal religions in which the men may have more than one wife, the wives have very few rights and are only taken seriously as slaveswives and mothers.

I'm not saying that I think we should get rid of Mormons here, this is, after all a country who supposedly respects our right to practice whatever religion we want. I completely support freedom of religion. Even though we fiercely object to other people's religions in other countries. That is a gross hypocrisy on our part. Well, I guess it's just part and parcel of this whole democracy hypocrisy in which we go to other countries, bomb the crap out of them and force them to adopt our "democracy" at gun point and let us put our own stooge in charge of them, like the good little dictators we Americans are.

Oh dear, I got a little off the track there. Speaking of cool clothes, Islamic women dress beautifully. I know I'm not supposed to think so, because the veil represents the evil of the Islamic patriarchal stranglehold, yet even so... the veil and the head dresses they wear, the long gowns, they are so gorgeous and strangely provocative to me. The best fashions I ever saw were not in Paris, as you would expect (I think the French dress horribly actually, don't smack me for not worshiping them), but in Old Jerusalem. I'm serious. We stood on the top of the Tower of David, Philip and I, and looked down at everyone walking around. It's as though all times had meshed together and then stood still. Processions of nuns dressed exactly as they have always dressed in this spot walking solemnly by; the Arab women in their wonderful scarves wrapped snugly around their chins with gorgeous dark eyes and beautiful skin going about their everyday business; all mixed in with soldiers in crisp Khakis carrying machine guns as casually as if they carried bundles of daisies on their shoulders; hunched over old Jewish men in black suits shuffling past us. It was the most beautiful sea of people I have ever seen in my entire life. It made me wonder how any person on earth could truly wish for a monoculture when such beauty and richness can be achieved with everyone mixing together.

Before anyone gets irate at the things I have said, please realize that every day I strive to allow every one who is different than me to occupy their own space in this world we share. SHARE is the operative word. Unlike many people, I actually do believe in freedom of religion and I don't at all object to sharing this world with all kinds of people who believe things that, to me, seem strange and cockeyed, and sometimes just plain unfathomable. What I don't believe in is refusing to notice the quirkiness of both myself and others. I am an equal opportunist when it comes to making fun of human beings.


*I must say that African American Baptist women don't seem so restrictive in dress and wear some pretty amazing hats to church, they also tend to seem less frumpy and unhappy. Plus they sing about ten million times better.

Airlie: a wine review

If you have never tried this wine, you're in for a surprise.

Look at that cool label. Wine labels are super important, because a good one can inspire a shopper to pick up your bottle in spite of having no idea if your wine is good or not.

Here at the Williamson Ranch we are trying to discover what wines we like so that we can drink more of them. Our hearts are clearly with the hops, but a good wine can be incredibly enjoyable. You're asking yourself what right an inexperienced wine drinker like myself has to write a review about this venerable beverage. I can name three really good friends of mine who could give you a proper review with all the conventional wine words, and who actually have some credentials in the wine industry. I respect what these people have to say about various wines.

However, when it comes down to it, drinkability in wines is entirely a matter of personal taste. A wine could be touted by the biggest wine experts in the world and still be undrinkable to me. Knowing about wines doesn't mean you're going to like them. Everyone, therefore, has a right to his or her opinion. I'm going to tell you mine about this wine.

When Philip first poured out my glass he took a taste and told me I was going to hate it. He handed me my glass and I didn't swirl it. I did sniff it however. I detected much fruitiness. A certain hint of floral sweetness. And then there was an aroma completely unexpected in a wine: a certain element of polyester was present in the whiff. Since I hate sweetness in wine I was suspicious at once. Another thing I really dislike in a wine is floraly overly fruity ripeness. Ugh.

Sometimes a wine can deceive you with its aroma, so I took a sip.

And nearly spit it out.

You know that special note of polyester I whiffed? As it turns out, there were layers of different plastic flavors. Several grades of sweet polyester, a little melted PVC, with a sickening sweet fruity/floral finish. I cannot help but wonder if someone accidentally dropped their Glad lunch container in the vat? How is it even possible to achieve such a noxious brew?

I need to mention here that Philip found it pretty drinkable. That's just so you know that I am aware that people have different tastes. Though there's obviously no accounting for them.



*I like my wines super dry, with oakey flavors, it can have fruitiness if it is tempered by being super dry. I like full bodied wine. I like the wines my close friends Sid and Dennis like. I have decided to ask them for a list of their favorites that fall in my price range. Then I will ask Dennis to tell me what to call those qualities I like in my wine. Which he obviously likes in his wine too. And as soon as the website he's writing for goes up, I will post a link to it. Dennis is writing for a website that will report on different wines, wineries, and wine related events.

Six Weird Things About Me

I've been tagged by Happy Zombie. Can someone please tell me what "meme" means or stands for? The only problem with this subject is that I think anyone who ever checks into this blog already knows more than six weird things about me. But here goes anyway:


1. I do not like to get food from buffets. It isn't that I worry about the food being rotten, I just don't like standing in line to choose food to put on my plate. Probably this has to do a little with the fact that I am a vegetarian (I have been since I was born) and there is a lot of food I can't and don't want to eat. Either I have to take samples of lots of suspicious looking food and examine it in the relative privacy of my chair only to discover that almost everything has bacon grease on it except for the grapes, or I can see immediately that there is only one thing I can eat so I heap my plate with it and look like a total hog. I am very fortunate in my spouse who suffers my foibles like a gentleman and always gets my plate for me.

2. I don't like children's birthday parties. I realize what a sacrilege it is to admit this openly. I find children's birthday parties to be disturbing, stressful, obnoxious, and annoying events. I don't like throwing them (don't worry, I do it anyway), and I don't like going to them. The absolute worst of them are the ones with nary a drop of alcohol to soothe the nerves. Max loves birthday parties more than most other things on earth.

3. After having bravely admitted the last item, you will hardly find this one surprising: I don't play games. Don't try to make me. I promise I will not budge. Not even if you're dying. Here's a list of games I don't play: cards, charades, any kind of stupid parlour games, board games (except with my child), social group games that are meant to help strangers get to know each other, croquet, boules, and baby shower games. The only game I will play with another adult Philip is scrabble.

4. Large crowds of people make me choke up. As in: they make me get so emotional I almost cry. It isn't sadness, fear, or happiness. I'm not sure what it is, but I suspect it may just be the power inherent in huge numbers of people huddled together. Huge crowds of people can be beautiful or savage depending on the mood of the herd. I believe it's mostly a primal reaction.

5. Bagpipes and marching bands make me choke up too. With bagpipes it's because of the haunting proud sound of the music. I know most people think bagpipes sound like some variation of a dying animal, but to me, they sound like human sorrow, happiness, triumph, mourning, and celebration all rolled into one satisfyingly loud package. If I could stand on the top a hill in the highlands and make my soul describe to the whole planet how it feels about life, it would be a bagpipe playing Amazing Grace. As to marching bands, I don't especially like them, but still they have that effect on me.

6. I don't like it when people try to get me to try free samples of things. I never take food samples from people in the grocery store. I'm not worried about germs. Not really. It just makes me really uneasy. It makes me distrustful. But I don't know why. I don't like getting free things at all unless they are gifts from people I know. A woman came in to my shop and forced me at gunpoint to take her free Mary Kay sample even though I obviously have lots of skincare in my store that I probably believe pretty strongly in using or I wouldn't carry it. (Uh, it wasn't really at gun point, it just felt like I had been mercilessly targeted) I think the reason I don't like free things is that they are almost never something I actually want, and are nearly always made of complete garbage.

Plenty

My mind can't help but turn towards the garden now. I want to plan it out, clean it up, and turn it into a mini farm full of abundant food and flowers. I want to put my new compost bins in the back and spray the trees with dormant oil. I want to prune the roses and take out all the bushes I don't like. The truth is, I may have no time for any of this this year. It is, unfortunately, more important that I do all the things for the store that need doing than to work in the garden. This goes against the grain with me. I don't think anything should be more important than growing herbs, flowers, and food. The most fundamental activity any of us can engage in. However, if we don't make the store as perfect as we can, then we will eventually lose our house.

Which is where my garden is.

What will happen is that I will squeeze in time for planting, though it won't be as pretty as I had hoped to make it. I will plant my herbs, my tomatoes, and my eggplants. I will steal minutes (or hours) to put at least something in the ground this spring that we will be able to harvest this summer. I know that if I don't do it I'll end up feeling a little soul sick. I understand how melodramatic that sounds. I don't give a rat's ass if anyone out there thinks I sound like some kind of mushy-hippie-Beltane dancing-earth mother. (For the record, I would not be caught dead dancing naked at all, ever, let alone to the light of the moon or a witchy bonfire.)

I can appreciate a beautifully landscaped garden. I have been known to swoon over a gorgeous arrangement of plants with all those wonderful rich trappings like "water features" or teak furniture placed artfully amongst the rare perennial maze. I love a garden with nary a weed or unsightly stack of rotted wood. But what I love even more, is a garden that dedicates at least twenty five percent of its space to the cultivation of things that can be eaten by human beings. When I see a garden in which there is a pharmacopoeia of herbs, fruits planted in every corner, and vegetables spilling out in complete disarray, I never see the weeds. I don't see the broken toys scattered all over the place. I don't notice that there's no symmetry or plan. What I see is a garden that is feeding people. A garden that is healing people. A garden more beautiful than any manicured, planned, or tidily maintained space.

My yard will be a sea of weeds this year. Much like last year. I will barely have time to plant it and keep it watered. Forget the weeds. My yard will look like no one cares what the neighbors think or have to look at. There will be days when I will feel kind of bad. When I will wish I had the time to show the neighbors what a paradise I can create. If I didn't have to work outside the house I could make that yard of mine into the kind of eden no one ever wants to leave once they're in the center of its spilling spread of plenty.

Most days I really won't have the time to be bothered over what the neighbors think. If they can't bear to see my yard over run with long grasses and unsightly clusters of weeds, they can come over and mow my dying lawn and weed the weeds whenever they want.

The lawn needs to be all pulled up. We hate lawn. Such a waste of space. I can't tell you how many times I have heard people tell me I "have" to have some lawn for my kid to play on. Isn't that what parks are for? My kid is actually slightly allergic to lawn and has always much preferred to dig huge holes in the dirt to run his trucks through. There are few things I hate more than when people tell me what my obligations are in life. Such as: learning to drive, having more than one kid, keeping my yard neat for the sake of property values, having a lawn for my kid, reading the newspaper. There is a list longer than Santa's of things I am supposed to do to be...what? To be a good person?

I have my own list of things all people should do:

• Eat mostly home made food, its healthier, tastes better (if you bother to learn to cook), and is cheaper than eating out. Unless you are eating out at fast food joints, which might be cheaper but is not only disgusting, but will speed you towards your (and your children's) end much faster than eating good quality food at home will.

• Grow at least two culinary herbs in your garden, on your balcony, or in your window. There's no excuse not to. None. Everyone can keep herbs alive if they pay attention them. If everyone grew at least two herbs in their garden to cook with fresh, the world would be a much better place. I wish everyone I knew would do this. I wish I had the words to inspire them to do it.

• Grow food where your lawns are. Yeah, I know, every one's got a million reasons why they don't have time to do it, why they need the lawn, have to have the lawn, how vegetables don't look good in their front yards, etc etc. It's monumentally more important to eat the freshest food possible than to look impressive to other people. I will plant things this spring in spite of having an unbelievable amount of stuff to do already. I might not plant as much as I'd like. It might not look as good. The weeds will flourish. But I will grow some of my own food. I believe that everyone else should do the same.

Oh, I'm sorry, is that too bossy of me? Look, I won't get all huffy when you ignore my list if you don't get all huffy when I ignore yours. Deal?

So who else out there is starting to think about their garden?

*Post Script: Ha! I just got a copy of "The Naked Chef" and you know what Jaime Oliver wants everyone to do? GROW THEIR OWN FRESH HERBS NO MATTER WHERE THEY LIVE.

My Mom Rocks!

You wouldn't know this, except for the fact that I'm about to tell you, that I just finished writing two really long very bad paragraphs. I'm having one of those days when I just don't seem to have that much to say. I know what you're thinking:

NO WAY, THAT IS NOT EVEN POSSIBLE!!!!

Well don't have a heart attack about it. Chances are I'll get my words back this afternoon and bombard the cyber-space with my loquacious ramblings. It's what I do best on earth.

In the mean time, these are pictures of my never quite done window. It needs some hearts on the blank blue side wall. My mom helped me make and add the back drop. I wish she lived here so she could work on my windows with me every month. Plus I love her. The only thing I might not like about her working on my windows is that she might turn out to be way better at window dressing than I am.

May your day be filled with precious hearts and flowers.

All cooped up

Snow days suck. I mean, it doesn't suck to have snow lying around, and I love it when it's falling, but when your kid stays home two extra days in the week...let's just say I'm tired today.
This is why I've decided that Philip is now going to take over the role of mom. Or, er, the main child care aficionado. When Max was born, it was all about mom and baby. Mom's bloody breasts and baby, more like. (I love to divulge information that scares off all but the hardiest of souls from my life) I stayed home with Max every single day from dawn til bed time, and then in the night when he woke to feed him, and any other time the Dad magic wasn't strong enough. A year later it was still about mom and baby. I stayed home with him every single day from dawn til night. Dad began permanently taking over the bathing routine which was a big relief.

Don't think Philip didn't give me breaks, he did. He played with Max, he fed Max on the week-ends, he bathed him, he walked him in the stroller, and he took him grocery shopping every Saturday afternoon to give me some space so I could clean the house without worrying about the junior element. Philip is a great dad; much more helpful than your average guy (probably mostly because I was a harpy about it). But let's face it, with children the star really shines on the bond between mom and baby. For a long time. Which is beautiful. Yes it is. I totally appreciated my role as a haloed Madonna and child; reveled in my soft fuzzy nest of three in which I was the nurturing mother goddess.

(Excuse me while I go vomit. I thought I could take it that far, but I really can't. In case you don't know it, I hate the word "Goddess". It always sounds so smarmy and reeks of pretend victory over an over-rated patriarchal society in which we should all already realize that women wear the real pants.)

We kept hearing that Max's insistence that mom do everything would fade eventually into an obsession with Dad. It never came. Mom had to put him to bed, mom had to administer food, mom had to dress him, mom had to fix him when he broke. We worked hard to break up the baby chores so I wasn't doing it all. But you get tired of a wailing kid who, through no conscious fault of his own, has already sucked the life blood out of you. You give in. Sure, mom will do it this time.

He started preschool right before he turned three and it was the most blessed break, that extra nine hours a week not being on mom duty. I loved playing with my boy for all those years. We painted, we scribbled, we made train tracks, we built with building blocks, we arranged cars and made them have picnics and races. We took walks, we bicycled (I had him in a seat in front, we went everywhere around town on my bike), and we watched movies. We dug dirt in the back yard, we visited friends, and we banged on pots and pans. But by the time he turned three, his "playing" requirements, which were already very specific, got more challenging. I couldn't just make all his cars have picnics all day long, they had to engage in fighting evil. With car chases, jail breaks, and all that good action hero stuff.

He no longer wanted to paint or dig in the dirt. It just got harder to entertain him or to please him in play. So imagine my relief when he goes to kindergarten and uses up his brain to learn all day and gives me six hours a day in which to not have to make hot wheels talk and fight evil. In spite of that, he was still largely mom-centered. Which is natural, to a degree. And yes, of course it makes me feel like a superstar.

My ability to conform to his idea of fun has been weakening for the last couple of years. But yesterday, I realized that I dread it now. I want to draw or paint, or cook, or do puzzles, or read to him. He wants to have sword battles with me during which I know I'll get hurt, not him. He wants to wrestle, to skateboard, to have lego battles, or to play video games with him. I'm no longer fun. We don't like the same things. Which makes me feel guilty. I hate video games, I hate playing war with legos (though as I have mentioned before, I do love to build with them, but that's not enough for Max. He wants me to really engage in playing with them.) He is constantly angry at me for not wanting to learn card games, and for not enjoying playing "war" with the cards. I would love to ride around on our bikes like we did together for years, but he won't do it.

It's dad time now. It has arrived. Max doesn't understand how come things have changed between us. He doesn't realize that it's him who is growing older, who has different ideas of fun now. Philip, when he really decides to pay attention to Max instead of drifting off into his own strange waking dream world, is an excellent companion for his own son.

No one has to say it. I realize that if we had other children, Max would probably need less of our focused attention because he would have a built in play mate to fight with instead of us. I admit that it's a weak point in our one child family. When we lived in our old neighborhood I never felt it was a weak point because when I could think of nothing for us to do together, we would go to a neighbor's house and he would have a great time. Now we hardly have anyone for him to play with. So it's all on us to be his play mates. Every day, day in and day out.

Yesterday he was home all day long. All day long it was a struggle to keep him satisfied and occupied and I will admit that he spent a lot of time watching movies. While I failed to make bread, not two times, but three. (I had a final failure last night with cornbread.) Mom's aren't supposed to ever admit that having a child is a burden or that they are tired of playing with them. After playing with my kid for six years, mostly uncomplainingly, I'm tired of kid's games. He's supposed to be playing with other kids now, or spend more time with his dad.

Since moving here and starting our store, for which I have to make a lot of things, Philip has been, by necessity, forced to spend a lot more time with Max. He has taken over the role that I used to have. He's now the primary care giver. All summer long he took Max to the beach and the skate park. Or to Portland to the science museum. It's been a huge relief to me.

Yesterday's "snow day" has made me realize that dads are the new moms around here at the Williamson Ranch. It's about time.

The loaf that might have been

This is a picture of the loaf of bread I had hoped to eat with tuscan white bean soup later this evening. I haven't made bread in over a year. I've never made bread in Oregon. Or in an electric oven. Or from a kit. This loaf was going to be my experiment. I am putting together a "How to bake bread" kit. I wanted to use Bob's Red Mill bread mix because they are somewhat local and because their flours are of great quality. If I have to put together the kit from scratch I will have to have all kinds of licenses to produce food. If I use Bob's bread making kit to add to my bread set, then I don't have to worry about that. I think.

What doesn't come in this nifty little bag of bread tricks is dog hair. Wanna know why? Because it sticks in your throat. I only left the dough for two minutes (on the kitchen counter) to check my e-mails. I came back and the ball of dough was gone. My dog came into the kitchen with her soulful eyes and they looked the tiniest bit guilty. I thought "My god, she's eaten the entire ball of raw dough! Is there nothing she won't eat?" Seconds after thinking this, I found my dough, slightly molested, covered in dog fur on my living room floor.

Then I realized that what she was really trying to convey to me was her horror that I would defile her mouth with such a hideous food product that not even a dog would like. It was accusation rather than shame in her look.

So there's something I wouldn't have guessed: my dog likes cat poo better than raw dough. Interesting.

Maybe I could have started over. But it was already twelve. That's getting really late for bread baking. What's worse though? That was already my second attempt to bake bread today. I was going to make rosemary thyme bread. To go with the soup. A special treat for my mom. Unfortunately for me, after proofing the yeast, I added my wheat flour, and immediately noticed that it smelled rancid. Well that sucks. I happened to have a new bag of wheat flour so I did a comparison between the new one and my old canister of wheat. Yep, no question about it. It had that icky old, stale, slightly sour in an unappetizing way smell. And I had already used up most of my tender rosemary tips from the garden. I don't even want to know why I didn't just use the newer wheat.

So I turned to the Bob's Red Mill bread. Then my dog happened to my dough.

And now I have to go play lego war or hot wheels with Max without the comfort of knowing that while I am taming the little monkey, I have bread yeast working hard for me in the kitchen.

But don't cry for me. I'll be fine. Really I will. Because I am zen woman with Ghandi-esque patience and compassion and respect for hoodlums and bad doggies.

Another snow day

(or: How McMinnville has not discovered the magic of tire chains)

Yesterday was a "snow day" for McMinnville's whole school district even though there was only about an inch of powder and almost no ice. I worked in the store all day and watched the cars passing by. I understand that many people around here have snow tires to help with traction, but if the weather conditions are bad enough to call school off, it seems to me that people ought to have had chains on their cars. We did. Some roads were dangerously slippery even for cars with chains. Has no one around here heard of chains?

Today is another "snow day" even though not a spec of new snow fell from the sky last night. I suppose it's ice we're concerned with now. Again, chains are a great aid in black ice conditions. I'm annoyed because it seems so needless and it has left me with one whiny six year old who announced this morning that "The school better not keep having snow days because I am getting used to them." Philip did great with Max yesterday, playing with him, keeping his video game playing and his movie watching to a minimum. It's my turn now and I confess that I do not do well spending fourteen hours straight trying to entertain a six year old. I have to get laundry done, and cook food, I have to do dishes.

I can force him to play by himself, but I'm a wimp. If I do that he might launch into a crying jag which will almost certainly turn into a bloody event. I've suggested he play hot wheels with Grandma, but he is insisting on me. Of course he is. It's at times like these when I wistfully imagine what it might have been like to have a girl, the kind of girl I could sit around and color in books with, do some cool crafts, dress up dolls, and have help me in the kitchen. I love having a boy most of the time. It surprises me that I do, but it's true. But keeping him entertained is challenging. He wants to play war with legos. Or he wants to play war with hot wheels. I LOVE building lego fortresses but I loathe playing war with them. It's a frequent argument between Max and I.

I had an interesting talk with Max the other day when we were playing war with the legos. He stopped mid-bombing and said "Do you think Martin Luber King can see me?" "I don't know" I said. "If he can see me, I hope he can tell that this is just a game. It's not a real war. Do you think he knows we're just playing at war?" Interesting. "I don't know if he can see you Max, but I'm pretty sure that if he can, he knows that legos aren't real. Are you worried about this because he was a great believer in non-violence?" He resumes bombing the Bionicle enemy and concludes "Yeah. Because I like to play war with my legos, but I would never want to be in real war." Which is especially interesting since he's told me before that he would like to fight evil, so he's going to join the Navy.

He has also been known to say the following "Why hasn't someone put the President in jail? He's a bad man. If I was a grown up I would make him stop having the war." You're imagining us sitting with Max at the dinner table, with bare bulb hanging in front of his face, and we're making him repeat over and over again "The president is a bad man...the president is a bad man..." like a democrat's catechism. C'mon, you think we're filling his head with propaganda, don't you? HA! You're wrong. It's true that we have had some political discussions with Max when he's asked us what we're talking about. Which has led to more explanations and discussions.

The real reason Max thinks the president is a bad man is because Max wants to visit his Grandpa Adam in Israel. A grandpa he's never met. He wanted to go "right now." I explained that right now is a bad time for Americans to visit that part of the world. So I had to explain that we were having a war on, thanks to our noble leader. Max declared that he was really mad at President Bush because it was just mean of him to have a war so that he couldn't visit his Grandpa. He decided right there and then that Bush should go to jail. Max promises me that if he was a policeman he would put Bush in jail right now.

Amen kiddo.

Dog on a dune

(a trip to Pacific City)

We were going to go to Astoria yesterday, but changed our minds. If there's one thing I have learned from Deepak Chopra, it's that the path of least resistance is the best way to avoid throttling your sweet little bunny child who has recently announced that he's going to have you killed because you made him so mad. Pacific City is only half the distance that Astoria is and has the known attraction of a huge sand dune that Max happens to love climbing. That's him and Philip at the top of the Dune. I took this picture from about two thirds the way up which is as far as I got.

A wonderful thing about this beach and the towering dune that looks down on it is that dogs don't have to be on leashes. Which is a wonderful thing. Chick went up and down that dune a couple of times at top speed. I can tell you that having only made it two thirds of the way up the hill before my lungs collapsed, it takes incredible power to propel a body up a steep dune at such speed. She usually looks so dopey cute, but I tell you, I saw her muscles ripple. I was deeply impressed.

Yeah, I know, lots of doggy pictures. I just can't get enough of looking at her enjoying herself so freely and hugely.

I promise the dog pictures are almost done. This is Chick chasing the moving sand her own feet have dislodged. Can you see how steep it is? That's the beach down there.

That's my mom down there talking to some people. Chick is on high alert for dogs to play with. Or more sand to chase. I wanted to be able to say I got to the top, I tried crawling on my knees but it was just too much. Here's a paradox for you: I love climbing. I'm good at climbing. I have the urge to climb rocks or hills whenever they are in front of me. However, I happen to be extremely afraid of heights. The only reason I could handle looking down there is because the sand was really pillowy. Running down the dune is like running down clouds. Soft and bouncy. It's a bit of a shock when you get to the much firmer beach sand below. It surprised my feet so much I fell down immediately.

We went to the Pelican Brew Pub which is right there on the beach. Their IPA is pretty good. They've won awards for their beers and ales. The food was alright. They put goat cheese on my salad though. Ugh.

Max insisted on running in the waves for a few minutes before coming in to meet us in the pub. So Philip let him do it. Within minutes he was screaming in pain because his feet got so cold. It seems we came close to letting our son lose his feet to frostbite. Whatever will we do next? It was about thirty degrees out there. We should have insisted he not go in the water. I took over the crisis management after Philip carried him to the car. When Max gets really panicky, it is near impossible to attend all his needs at once. He was wet and sandy with feet hurting like hell. So the first thing I think I'll do is strip him of his wet pants to put on his dry ones. So I get them off and start to put on the dry ones (he's wailing and crying all this time) and then his shrieking goes up a notch and he starts yelling at me "Get the sand off my feet! Now! Get it off!" But he's shivering and I've brushed all the sand off of his feet that I can when my hand gets splattered with blood.

Well this is fairly standard now. (It's like a math equation: pain+crying= bloody nose. Bloody nose+ crying= panic sandwich.) So now the kid is screaming for tissue, shivering, with sandy hurting feet and he doesn't understand how come I can't make the sand go away, end the bloody nose, get his pants on without a single grain of sand getting inside them or a single drip of blood on them, and make his feet stop hurting all at once. Because isn't that what moms do? I have a hard time remaining patient and calm and loving. Because it's stressful to get splattered with blood while worrying about whether the kid has frostbite and will lose all his toes as a consequence of our lackadaisical parenting style, while sand is lodging itself in your mouth and your kid doesn't even have pants on. I'll tell you this much, you have to get louder than him and quieter at the same time. Not many people can do that, but I'm becoming a master.

Somehow I managed to talk him down from an insane freak out and got the warm pants on, got most of the sand off his feet, got socks on those toes, and eventually the bloody nose eased up and we walked into the Pelican Brew Pub with wads of bloody napkins as gay as a bunch of sky larks. (Ones that appear to have just gotten in a bar room brawl.) We ended up having a great time at lunch. Max and I goofed off and he actually ate about five fries which is a minor miracle.

I think it's important to understand that this kind of an event is pretty frequent around here. So the next time someone asks me how come I don't have another one on the way I'm going to refer them to this post. (And the other one about the bloody noses.) I'm going to ask them what the hell I would do with another one while working my way through these frequent crisis? And then, because these crisis' always bring on a strong urge to drink beer, how would I be able to then deal with the bickering at the table? It would make me need to start in on the hard stuff. Uh Uh. No way.

Now that my hair is almost completely gray in front I'm not getting pestered about the one kid choice anymore. But just recently some woman was "tsk tsk"ing me for saying one was enough. She told me I "had" to have other little ones. As though I was committing a crime against decency to have an only child. What is this obsession with babies anyway? Is there nothing else for people to do than pop out as many kids as possible and make sure everyone else is doing it too?

I often like to point out that I couldn't have more than one kid because I'm not a woman who could deal with kids in the plural. As though that was the real reason. It's not. The real reason is not because I would be an inadequate mother to two or three kids (though that's true enough). It has nothing to do with my mental illness or parental potential.

It's simply that I do not want to have the responsibility for the lives of more than one human being on this earth besides myself. One child was the perfect number. Plus, I never ever want to have to go through pregnancy again. Or childbirth.

I love my little monkey. Even though I have had to become an expert in bloody crisis management. Even though he's driven me to drink. A lot.

He said yesterday that he doesn't want to be a race car driver anymore. He said he wants to be a genius. (One of the few things I earnestly hope he's NOT) But then we told him how much school geniuses have to go through and he changed his mind.

The road to Pacific City is gorgeous. The roads were icy so Philip went really slowly. Especially after we saw a VW Bug get towed away after having obviously taken a toss in the muddy ditch. I love these huge icicles hanging off the ledges to the side of the road.

It was a winter landscape. Total magic.

I felt really happy to have been able to share this outing with my mom. She loves to see snow on hushed land. And then it snowed last night and for a few hours this morning. I was hoping it would. So my mom could actually be here to see it come down. Wonderful!

The Williamson Ranch report

Pearl photographs well. I wonder how much like Lindsay Lohan she'd be if she were a person? Personally I think Pearl has more dignity. She never gets caught in compromising photos. You might be able to make the argument that if there were any roosters in the run she'd be a whole different creature. I don't know, she could be a lesbian. There's no way to know these things.

A few days ago I was the poultry paparazzi and caught Flower Bud in the act of laying an egg. This is a rarely seen activity as they prefer to do their laying away from prying eyes. If she had hands, she would have taken my camera and smashed it like Tom Cruise. You can tell by that angry glare in her eye. Isn't she cute?

There are over six hundred daffodils and other Narcissus out there beginning to pop up in my garden. I love that, the first hint of a spring in our future. I'm in no hurry to shuffle out of winter though, especially since it might snow tomorrow. Still, one of my favorite flowers is the narcissus.

I realize that I am boring you stiff with all these photos of the boxes. But, whatever. I got lots of work done yesterday. Working on more variations. Future Girl had some interesting suggestions, most of which I will probably stubbornly ignore. However, I think she mentioned something that I agree with.

She suggested having only one strap. I did the two because it adds more of a color splash on the news print. But I could do a thicker strap and only have one. It would simplify the production process. I haven't decided yet. I'm going to mull it over today while we are visiting Astoria.

There are three sizes of boxes. I've decided to come up with prices for them empty, and then do a few gift sets in them where you get a big price break on the boxes. I think they're pretty enough that I would buy one just to put lovely things in. Like a hat box. What do hand decorated hat boxes adorned with silk roses cost out there? I have to do a lot of work for these, but I can't make them prohibitively priced.

This one only has one strap because it's all that would fit. No star because it's too small. This box is only seven inches across. The smallest one.

I've thought about this and I think I may offer two wrapping options at Dustpan Alley: the standard (free) wrapping with the fabric rosette on kraft paper, and then offer one that costs five dollars that is the one with the newsprint over the kraft paper with the band of red fabric, and the poppies. I really love wrapping presents fancy, but I couldn't do that poppies and vintage newsprint one for free because of the cost of the materials. I think I'll show an example on the wall so people can choose.

Things are picking up around the website. We got another order yesterday. Yay! I can't even tell you how exciting it is to us. Also: I sold a Bitter Betty Industries decoupaged box yesterday. It was something the girl who bought it had seen in our store and come back to buy after thinking about it.

I still don't have my Valentine window complete, and I have my mom here now. Somehow I will have to spend some time in the store this week to complete the sewing for it. I'm already trying to plan out my spring windows. Naturally my mom has lots of ideas. She's an amazing artist and has a good eye for composition and a wonderful way of putting colors together. However, I told her that I have to do it my way, I have to be cautious as I learn this new window dressing art which isn't quite the same as painting a still life. I need to apply the things I've learned from Bitter Betty first. I can't just jump in and do some elaborate theme. I need simplicity first.

Well, I suppose I had better be off now. I have to go study some Oregon maps to see how far away Astoria is. Max is not at all thrilled at the idea of a road trip. So that will make it extra fun. There's nothing like a reluctant traveller strapped to the back seat. In fact he has informed me that he plans to lock himself in his room so we can't make him come with us.


*We chickened out. We decided to go to Pacific City because it takes half the time. Which means that if Max is going to be difficult, we'll only have to be in the car with a super grump for half the time.

The new and improved

This is the special gift wrapping I did for the customer who bought The Bitter Betty Industries necklace. This is not the standard DPA gift wrap. I would have to charge five dollars for this. The poppies are vintage. I got them from "Dolls and Lace". The paper is from a page of my "Household" magazine from the thirties. I need to buy a kajillion more of them before there are no more of them. The Sure Jel ads are super funny. They suggest I start a "Jelly Club" and I'm seriously considering it.

This post has lots of pictures. Pardon me if you find it redundant. I really love the way this turned out. I would be so excited to get a present that looked like this. It almost wouldn't matter if there was a box of Altoids inside.

This is what the work table looks like after three days of trying stuff out, cutting, taping, gluing, stamping, discarding, pinking, and not cleaning any of it up. Actually that's a complete lie. I cleaned this table up right before working on the box decorations yesterday afternoon. What you see here is one hour's worth of frantic cutting, pasting, and searching for good ideas amongst the scraps.

I think this particular silk rose will look better with a more contrasting fabric such as black with white pin dots, or maybe a red fabric. But you can see how I covered the box with the "Household" paper? Dang, I should have posted the before picture too so you could see for yourself what an improvement it is.

This is the one that made me so excited. I love the colors, the sparkly star, and the old paper. To me they are harmonious without being boring. They are sweet without making myself want to choke myself to death. They are nostalgic without being overly sentimental. The silk rose can be made into something for those who are crafty. however, I hot glued it down to the fabric strips which are hot glued down to a piece of felt. None of it is hot glued to the box, so you can remove the decoration and put it back. So it doubles as a pretty storage box.

Here's the glamour shot. Yes, I know, I've got a thing for glass glitter. It's the best thing about
Wendy Addison's work. She introduced me to the magic of silver glass glitter. I've never recovered. I want to cover everything in it and look at it all day long. If I ever get admitted to a mental health facility for a long stay, I'm pretty sure I could be kept calm by dangling glass glitter covered objects in front of my face.

One more view. See what I mean though, about how there was something better needing to come of all those other design ideas? They were too glossy. I mean, I might actually make up one of them because they're kind of cool, but they didn't hit the spot. This version looks more polished. I think I can do some higher contrast variations that will really reflect the colorfulness of my store. But I am very happy with this one. Which is why I've shown you fifty pictures of it.

Oh right, I bet you're wondering how come I've included a picture of two rolled up pieces of beer box, huh? Rolled up pieced of beer box that have apparently been chewed on. We went to Lisa and Mark's house last night. Philip dropped off me and Max and took off to the Portland Airport to pick up my mom who's here somewhat spontaneously. Chick was bored. She whined. Philip brought her only one chew toy. She had exactly zero interest in it. Whining dogs are very irritating. I guess I could have tried smacking her around, but I hear that can destroy a dog's sweet nature. Plus, I would never do that. So instead I got the brilliant idea to roll up some cardboard really tight, tape it closed, and throw it for her. She likes to chew on cardboard. Then Lisa made an amazing suggestion to put a little peanut butter in the center.

She went through four cardboard roll-ups, but it took her a lot of time to do it. She stopped whining. This impromptu design may not be pretty, but if you're in a tight dog spot like I was this trick just might make you both really happy. I love this picture. I have to admit that she made a huge mess with this gizmo. Lots of little wet chewed up spit out wads of cardboard scattered around the floor. But it was worth it.

We're thinking about taking a trip to Astoria on Monday. I've never been but now I know at least two bloggers who live there and the pictures they post are so pretty. Besides, how can a place called Astoria not be cool? My mom's hip needs replacing, so she is in a lot of pain and can't walk around much, but hopefully we'll get to check out some of the shops. Maybe even stop by the ocean. Are there ticks waiting to latch on to us there?

I have tick fear. I have romped around on the Oregon coast a million times and never once got a tick or knew there might be any to be gotten. Then my friend Nicole told me about a field trip she took her students on to a Northern California beach at which the ticks were plentiful and eager to get acquainted with the kids. One kid apparently got about twenty ticks on him because he didn't listen to Nicole when she told him not to roll around in the tall grass.

So apparently there are two things to worry about at the beach now, no wait, three! Tsunamis, drowning children, and ticks. Man, such a dangerous terrain. I think maybe I would prefer to sit in a pub with a pint and think nice thoughts about the ocean rather than actually go to it.

I actually really love the ocean. Well, I love it where the beaches are cold, rocky, and moody. I don't like Southern California beaches. I like tide pools, smooth rocks, drift wood, and running in the cold cold water with my pants rolled up and no shoes on. There is no better spa treatment for the tough skin on your feet than sloughing it off with sand and salty water.

Well, it's time to get going to work. I hope you all have a great Sunday!