Blue Willow

I am obsessed with Blue Willow.

And now you are disappointed.

After a several week absence, I return with what? A post about dishes? How sad. Nothing about poops or something embarrassing I did when I was 11, or details of my mom's sordid past, or something Brian said that I've twisted into an insult about my fatness?

Nope. It's all about stuff I want and lately all I want, among a lot of other things, is Blue Willow.

My first memories of Blue Willow are of some plates we had up at our cottage near The Pas, Manitoba. They were probably chipped cast offs from some long forgotten set of the prior owners of the cabin. But to me they were the most elegant and exotic things going. I remember thinking that they kind of proved that our family was, like, totally rich.

Dreams die hard wen you're young.

Anyway, so now I've been thinking about finally decorating our bedroom, and the motif on which I have settled is, you guessed it, Blue Willow.  White, with a couple different blues, and a soupçon of Chinoiserie.

I started by getting a big white dresser from IKEA (which i put together with only a little man-rage help from Brian and only putting something on backwards twice!). 

Yes. I've finally admitted that I am IKEA and not ABC Carpet and Home. I am everyman.

Next I have to refinish Brian's bedside table because he really likes it and it's awful. I need to learn how paint furniture. How much do you have to actually sand a piece before you can prime and paint? Like right down to the actual wood, or just enough to get the sheen of varnish/stain/whatever off of it?

I'd love to find this wallpaper, but I think Brian might put his foot down.

I've ordered a needlepoint pattern for a cushion, because what bed is complete without dog hair and an abundance of throw cushions for the cat to throw up on?

I'm a gonna makey this.

And when it's all done, I will sit in my bed with a posy of lily of the valley next to me and read books and talk to my cat. I will wear a bed jacket. Because that's what Castle's mom would do.

Gently darling, your
 auntie's hung

And for those of you who are still waiting for something more typical of me...

Poop.

The Secrets of Our Parents.

I'm visiting my mom.

I love my mom a lot. But I've said that before.

I think it's a universal thing -  kids don't see their parents as human beings, individuals with their own hopes, dreams, disappointments, failings, etc., until they are adults themselves.

 Parents are - ideally - food, affection and car key giving automatons, whose sole purpose is to provide their offspring with the necessities of life, plus a bunch of other crap that the other kids at school get because their parents have a great gig at Manitoba Hydro.

And then little by little you find out details of your parents' lives that you can relate to:

 first loves, 

addiction to online shopping








inexplicable urges to binge drink

lack of athletic prowess, 

or what have you.

And sometimes you find out things about your parents that take you completely by surprise. We find out things about our parents, dark secrets we wish we could bleach out of our consciousness, and go back to seeing them as the man in the La-Z-Boy watching Monty Python re-runs, and the woman eating orange peels while she reads improving literature.

This has happened to me.

I have discovered that my mom is money-crazed.

Now, we're good Scottish folk, and being a bit tight with my pursestrings, I should not have been surprised, but still, some things don't need to be screamed out for all to see.

Or at least not written down clearly in a day-book on the kitchen counter.

My mom is super organized. Every aspect of her day is planned and each errand or activity is written out and then gets crossed off as they are completed.

So, I guess she was just being thorough when she wrote down the following entry. This is what my mom has planned for April 14, 2013.

And it's all she has planned for that day, apparently.

Does she have some hideaway where she secrets off to, to roll around in wads of cash, gold coins  and pearls spilling out of ancient chests? 

 litlnemo/Flickr

Or does she go somewhere where someone else counts her cash for her, while she stand behind him holding a gun? 

Do we ever really know our parents?

So if my mom has to set aside an entire day to count her money, that means she must have a crapload of dough, right? She's a pretty good counter, so I imagine she could count pretty high in, say, an 8 hour period.

This brings to mind that for Christmas, I got pot scrubbers.

In spite of her secret, I continue to adore my mommy. And not because I expect that she'll ever share her wealth with me. No. I know she's going to donate it all to the church because she's so damned churchy. No. I love her because she's excellent.

Except at skiing.

She kinda sucks at that.

My Selkirk, 2.0. The Outdoor Series

Yes, I'm back home for a visit, and I thought I'd do another photo essay of my town. Selkirk gets kind of a bad rap. I've heard it referred to as a "Scuzz Town". Well, every town has its less than perfect qualities, and even if Selkirk is a little rough around the edges, I love it, in all its pot holed, red-necked, Crime Stopper footage glory.

Frosty Chuck

8 am. Where is everyone?

look up. waaaaaay up.

Time for a new sign, methinks.

I used to go down this back lane when I'd go over to Pam  Stewart's house to play Jello Tree Farm. I tried to get  a picture our our old backyard, mom, but there was some guy peeing up against our old garage. I didn't like to disturb him.

Important Selkirk Staple.

Sidewalk. Super treacherous.

The street where I lived

Rosser Ave

the other street where I lived.

frosty trash

I took a picture of this two years ago. It's still the same.

Manitoba Ave

Tres charmant. I will be going there this visit.

ubiquitous mucky snow hill in parking lot

Selkirk Bridge

I've never been inside.

I'm thinking of doing a photo essay of all the discarded beverage containers along the main street  here in Selkirk, but I don't think there's enough space in the internet to accommodate it.

No parking here, bitch. Just for emphasis.

You can't really tell, but that's a kid shovelling snow wearing shorts. It's -12 Celcius. Only in Manitoba!

A puddle or a massive pothole? Only one way to find out.

Electric Avenue

Frost

This house stands out and is all sunny and cheerful on a cold grey day. Yellow house don't care. Yellow house don't give a shit.

They tried.