Category:

A chuckle a day keeps the doctor away....

8/18/2014

I’m sure it’s been noted that I’ve been remiss in the blog department most of last week. Robin William’s suicide threw me for a loop and caused a great deal of inner reflection. I wrote a blog about it but I’m on the fence whether or not to post it, it was pretty raw…..

In the meantime I have a funny little story that happened Saturday at the shop. Personally I was in the market for a few laughs so I’d like to bid a sincere thank-you for one customer’s silly little comments.

A great deal of the time I’m alone in the shop on Saturdays but Shane was in and Mary, who intended to come and hook with me, was also on deck. I had a rough week and thought it would be great to mellow out with a bit of hooking with my bestie mate, a relaxing day to chat and see a bit of progress on my letter S.   I never got to pull a loop and poor Mary was solicited into duty as well.

Good plans and well placed intentions don’t fit retail because you never know what might happen on any given day. Saturday the flood gates opened and it was constant traffic, nonstop from opening to closing. It was a wools sales day, everyone seemed to need help with colour planning and I love this, helping to shape customer's projects is one of my favourite things.

First come, first served is a general rule, it works for the bank and the post office, why not a rug shop? I do my best to work the crowds and help everyone in a timely fashion. My old short order cook training kicks in and I can cover the floor pretty quickly, sometimes dealing with two or more people at a time. I can get a read on each customer as to who would or wouldn’t mind a few distractions or quick answers to questions. It’s all about juggling and I can handle quite a few pins at a time.

Some people are more needy and if they don’t feel catered too will leave in a huff. It’s upsetting when this happens but what can you do when the shop is wall to wall people! I surely don’t want anyone slamming out the door, feeling justified in telling the rug hooking world that Christine Little is rude but that happens, I hear it through the grapevine. I’m impartial, I don’t judge you by the amount of diamonds on your hand, or fancy clothes on your back. The needs of all my customers are equally important, there just has to be an order to it all and first come first served is fair.

There were two older women to the left of me as I assisted one customer in mapping out the colours of her new project.   I was absorbed in the task and discussing the choices while Mary, who was sitting close by overheard the conversation between two gals as they discussed whether or not our shop would tear a ½ yard piece of dyed wool into a quarter. The one woman said, "Well they should, the other shop does it!" I missed that little tidbit but when she interrupted me in the middle of my conversation to ask if we downsized wool, I said yes we do and that Shane, our dye master, would help her.   She said she was ready, so I asked Shane to take care of her and he dropped what he was doing and came over. As he approached she sent him away abruptly saying she wasn’t ready, so he said to let him know when he could help her.

The woman continued to shop for wool and found another piece that would be suitable and then told Shane she wanted that piece torn in half as well. He obliged per the usual, tore the wool in half and relabeled it.

She announced she was finished and proceeded to the cashier counter where she started telling Shane how much she loved another shop elsewhere in Nova Scotia. How it was much better there. How that shop was inspirational, with stress on the word. She said every time she goes in there she loves it and comes out so inspired. Everyone there is so nice. She asked Shane if he had ever been there to which he replied “no”. So she told him, that he should go and get some inspiration, basically saying he needed it. That conversation droned on until she left our doorstep.   I hadn’t heard any of it as I was busy elsewhere but I had to laugh at the absurdity of it all when Shane relayed it.

I wonder why she even bothered to come in, other than to tell us we fell short.   One negative comment doesn’t spoil what we’ve built.   So many tell us that they are inspired in the shop I know the negative comments came from a mean spirited place. I hadn’t realized the dame came from Buckingham Palace and wasn’t used to waiting, but then again, it wouldn’t have changed a thing….first come first served is for commoners as well as the royals.

It was a good chuckle had by all. Madam, thank you so much for a bit of comic relief after the sadness of the past week.     And always there is balance. This morning a rug hooker and her husband were in the shop all the way from New York. Her husband thought our shop was the nicest one they’ve been in on their trip, and his wife, Sarah McNamara of Hand Rooked Rugs, thepaisleystudio.com agreed. We always appreciate a kind word, we work hard, do the best we can and love our little shop. When I go home at night, just before I turn off the lights I look down the length of the studio and smile to myself. It’s beautiful and I’m proud as punch.

The day was followed by a night out with the girls. Mary, Charlene and I headed to the Grand Banker for a bit of letting down of the hair. We had a fabulous meal followed by a delicious cake at Charlene’s. We all parted wondering why there weren’t more of these evenings with the girls, why will months separate them before someone says, let’s do it again? Day to day responsibilities sure have a way of absorbing all our attention, leaving fun second seated. We must make a pact to meet more often, smell the roses more.

Anyway, I was finally out of my sad funk and hooked on Sunday on my letter S. I’ve finally made the decision to go with the green sand now the rest should go easy and quick.

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Today "D" is for Deer

7/31/2014

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The joy of completing my Initially Yours "D" was dampened by the devastation of a late night purge of my gardens. I suppose when one is handed lemons one should make jokes.

Mr. and Mrs. Deer and the kiddies decided to eat out last evening. Tired of regular fare of bark and forest lichens, they wanted something a little more exotic and decided to try out this place called Little's Garden that some of the herd had mentioned. It was casual dining, no black tails needed, just the way they liked it.

The menu there was varied and other deer had raved about it. Why just the week before, the Doe family had dined on great globes of Blue Hydrangea, a delightful delicacy. Word spread far and wide that the chef at this establishment really knew how to put out a spread, offering all the things they loved, unlike other places that were unfriendly to their patronage, offering bitter meals, things like marigolds and daffodils, smelly things that deer turn their nose up on. And this place was friendly and receptive to dining guests unlike others that had eight foot fences.

Much to their delight, the daily specials kept changing so there was always lots of variety and exciting appetizers. Right now lilies were featured and there is nothing better to stimulate the appetite than a tasty lily. A feast for the eye as well as the stomach, so many colours , so many sizes, something for everyone in this delightful smorgasbord. Yes, that Chef Christine really catered to their likes and they were thankful for all her hard work and menu planning.

They were a little nervous, someone said that the chef had been rude in the past, chasing patrons away with her broom, but tonight, dining by moonlight, the atmosphere was peaceful and serene at the all you can eat buffet.

As they sauntered into the garden, they stopped to sample some of the many hors d’oeurves, sweet shoots of new plantings, barely out of the ground these vealish cuttings were young and tender. New dishes, especially the Cape Breton Lily, pink and yellow tipped, was highly recommended, they gorged until they were all gone. They hoped the chef could put in a few more of those for next year.

They were ecstatic, so many delights and right in their own neighbourhood. Surely a place like this would get a lot of attention so close to the forest, you know what they say….location. location, location.

Hosta flowers, always appreciated, were devoured, but by now they were so full of prized lilies, they left the leaves for another day, maybe they would order the big salad next time, lovely variegated leaves, so big and juicy, they could hardly
wait to return.

And for dessert, they spied a gorgeous yellow lily, the pride and joy of Chef Christine. She had been watching it grow for weeks. Taking extra care watering and weeding to develop the largest blooms possible….a prize snack for sure! And appreciated it was, now all that remained were nibbled stalks, even the unopened buds were devoured.

The Deer family roamed the three gardens that surrounded the house. The greedy little gluttons ate so much the restaurant might have to close down for the season, leaving little in the way of leftovers.

They left satiated and slowly sauntered up the hill, bellies full and happy they had discovered this new place. They would be back and they would surely tell all their friends. If there was one complaint they would have liked to see a few vegetables, maybe get rid of all the rhubarb and put in some Swiss chard and maybe a few apple trees or strawberry plants so they could have dessert, something sweet to top off a meal of greens.

Although what they devoured was worth more than a few bucks, Mr. Deer paid for the meal with a steaming pile of coins, gratuity included. The whole family agreed, this was the best meal ever, and gave the dining experience two hooves up!

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Blame it on the moon!

7/11/2014

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Yesterday was not a great day. From the moment I awoke shit started rolling downhill. I was exhausted, dragging my feet around and my eyeballs felt watery and squishy. I was clumsy, everything I touched dropped or I stubbed my fingers. I swore more yesterday than all of the month before combined. Coordination being off can mean sleep deprivation and the fact that I sat on the sofa and immediately fell asleep after just getting out of bed, well you don’t have to be rocket scientist to put two and two together.

I was tired all day at work and everything crawled under my skin. Not a good day to tackle paperwork, that’s a pin in the eye most days and today it was a double dose of needles. In order not to show my greyness, I hid upstairs paying bills and that was a great mood builder...not! It was stinking hot outside and upstairs in my office felt like a sweat shop. Downstairs is divine with the heat pump but cool air doesn’t rise so I was a bit of a Mrs. Hyde, barely standing the skin I was in.

So I was a big ole cranky pants and left work at five minutes to five and drove home in a robot state, I was staring and not as observant as I normally am. I could feel that I wasn’t on the ball and I’m thankful I made it home without crunching metal. I took the dogs out for a pee and then barely made it to the sofa and was asleep before my head hit the cushion. I was out for hours and woke feeling like I had been hit by a log, my mouth was dirt dry so I must have been catching flies. Boy, that was the most tired I’ve felt for a long time. A physical as well as a mental tired. Zombie tired!

Coincidentally, I recently read an article about sleep deprivation symptoms and I had most of them. I’d been on one of those insomnia trends that seems happen once a month, a perk of menopause that plagues a lot of women. It comes and goes like a bad smell and I’m in the middle of one right now. Apparently, the lack of sleep can make you overeat comfort food and alter your mood. Check and check!

Then an evening nap took the edge off and I actually slept better through the night so I was more on the ball today. Last night I had big plans to start the next Initially Yours letter but I’ll start it tonight for sure. Sue was in today and we talked about insomnia and she mentioned that the full moon can play havoc with sleep patterns. I’ve never put that two and two together but maybe I should keep a journal. If it’s the moon I wouldn’t feel so bad, it’s always nice to place blame elsewhere for your problems. That way it takes the heat off of me because I always think I’ve done something to cause it. All that water I drink, liters a day hmmmm….the moon determines the tides for bodies of water, maybe it’s messing with the water in this body?

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Privacy, there's no such thing at my house.....

7/3/2014

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It doesn’t take much to confuse me these days. It seems I’m always working things out in my head that used to be second nature. I’m hoping it’s senior moments and nothing more serious but really, I’ve been fighting back a haze that seems to engulf me and looking in the fridge for missing things a lot. It seems to be the dumping ground for anything in my hand that I'm not focused on, from olive oil to toilet paper, no a fresh roll, not used stuff.

I seem to be distracted more as I get older. I guess I’ve reached a level of retaining too much knowledge....at least that's what I'm thinking, so it would be nice if I could purge the mundane and inconsequential stuff to make room for more of the important things to come. Maybe the bad first marriage, family disappointments and the like. Who wants to be one of those old farts (no disrespect to the elderly) who live in the past and remember yesteryear more than yesterday.

So yesterday morning, in all its muggy, breath stealing heat, I was panting and watching the pups work through their morning eliminations when I notice the garbage truck two doors down. Strange I thought, in our town, waste removal is always on a Wednesday, so why was it a day early? The July 1st holiday threw me off and quite frankly couldn't tell you what day it was without some heavy thinking.

This isn’t the time of year to let garbage pile up inviting a waft that only a maggot would appreciate, so I did a quick calculation to see if I would have enough time grab the bag and hoof it to the road before the truck pulled up out front. The worry was that I would be seen, with no time to fix my sleep hair, falling out all over the place and an oily, make-upless Halloween ready face and T-shirt with no bra. A sight not to be seen with sore eyes or otherwise!

I estimated I had enough time and clicked into action. I ran like my life depended on it, well at least my pride. And that pride thing that goeth before the fall stuff, which I prayed wouldn’t become a literal translation with my sloppy slippers, skimming over grass soaked by morning due, as slippery as a greased wheel. Going thingamajugs up on the lawn in front of two young fellers would give them a tale to tell and worse, in this age of cell phones, something to capture and post on FB for all the world to enjoy, a new worry in this day and age of social media.

So I ran like the wind and made it to the edge of our grass as the truck left the neighbour’s front yard and bore down on mine. There were two guys this time, usually only one is doing double duty, driving and picking up, but there was buddy #2 hanging off the side ready to jump off. He sported the perfect vantage point to watch me. I had run out of time, the truck and I would collide any second if I continued to advance, so I just threw the bag the last ten feet, turned on a dime and beat a hasty retreat.

As I was a legging it back up the lawn at a heart pounding rate, I was suddenly aware of the movement under my shirt. My untethered breasts were flopping up and down, north to south and then east and west, round and round, like a broken compass. It was amazing I hadn’t knocked myself out as they rose high and then snapped back down like a stubby, fat and well-rounded whip. I know the guy had to see it, all that action under my shirt had to attract attention, I’m not exactly small there, probably the size of chubby little ground hogs tossing about. I raised my hands to cup each mound to stop the dance, which probably looked worse. So now my hands, not big enough to do a full containment, are bouncing up and down as the hunks of flesh beneath the shirt continued to react to the motion. It’s not easy to run without arms outstretched for balance and they were pinned close to my waist to support my hands. I didn't dare look back to hide the look of horror on my face, or maybe I didn’t want to see the horror on theirs. I ran the rest of the way to the house and slammed the door behind me, finally able to breathe. It's obvious, there's no safe place to be natural, not even in my own backyard. This is the second time in just a matter of days I've been painfully reminded that I don't fall out of bed day ready.

While on the topic of chesty things, here's a related picture. Shane is 6' 4" and is always hitting his head on the hanging mermaid. Just a bit of fun in the shop on a hot sticky day!

The finished M!

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Gardening is war!

6/24/2014

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Except for a brief trip to the gardening center in Chester, I spent my Sunday digging in the earth. I am slowly gaining ground, literally. Last year the shop was so busy I didn’t get much done so the weeds have muscled out some of my precious perennials and every square inch of bare soil is now inhabited by a foreigner. It doesn’t help that the earth is the most nutrient rich I’ve ever worked with, fertilized yearly with compost and seaweed by the previous owner of the property. It’s richer than Oprah and attracts plant life like iron to a magnet.

I love the feel of the cool earth and would prefer not to wear gloves but my hands would be ruined and probably scare the customers. The dirt settles in the cracks and sucks the moisture out of the skin and there isn’t enough hand cream in the world to replenish it. I wear the kind of glove with a rubber palm to prevent grass leaf cuts as can be knife-like to pull, thence the term blade of grass.    The dirt still gets inside the glove, just enough to need a manicure but it’s all part of the experience and nothing a nail file and a bit of soaking can’t fix.

After a couple of hours clearing the dense undergrowth in the garden behind the house, I sat on a rock for a break, daunted by how much was left to beat back. It’s a slow advancement to do a thorough job. After the top of the weed is removed you have to dig deep to get the entire root or it will be back by yesterday. It's like a jungle back there, I’d hauled away three heaping wheelbarrows full of vegetation with at least two more to go and this part of the garden is small, maybe eight feet by twenty feet!

My body was sore, I was sweating like a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs and I’m spitting dirt that always becomes airborne in a tug of war with a particularly stubborn weed. As I shook the dirt from my bra that always manages to get down my top, a thought hit me. Gardening is war.   I was in the trenches. This was a War of the Weeds! It certainly has all the elements of combat. Aggressive invaders fighting over territory, landowner fighting back to protect and preserve, hand to hand combat, first with the left and then with the right to pull the weeds. Maybe I was too long in the sun but I started thinking of all the parallels and play on words to use for a war theme.

Some weeds put up one hell of a fight. They travel deep so you have to get out the heavy artillery to shift them…..enter the spade, my weapon of choice. Some roots are dreadfully long and deep, seemingly bound for Japan and don’t give up their posts easily.

I also have the scourge of a sticky weed that attacks with a vengeance.   It sticks to the plants and has some sort of toxin causing a burning rash when it comes in contact with bare skin. Chemical warfare if you ask me! If you give this weed an inch it takes the whole yard, and if you let it mature, it shoots its seeds around for next year’s crusade. The seeds are sticky and attach to your pant leg, boots and the pups, so they get transported around the yard to infiltrate virgin territory for next year's battle.

I won’t have to fence in the peony patch this year. Their blooms are top heavy and droop to the ground without support. I couldn’t weed that area because of the bird nest so now the grass is dense and tall enough to hold the plants vertical. Grass is my biggest foe. It doesn’t fight fair. It gets right into the middle of the root of the plant and then sends shoots all over the place to come up everywhere. You pretty much have to dig up the entire perennial and pick through the root system and then replant it.   And oh the slugs this year, as if sprayed from an automatic gun, leaving holes in precious lily leaves but interestingly doesn’t touch weed foliage.

Weeds can camouflage themselves. Chameleon interlopers sidle up to plants they resemble in an attempt at a covert mission, confusing the real plant from the spy. I can’t make them confess, it’s a fifty chance of getting it right.   It's kill now and ask questions later.

To keep the victory you can't turn your back for a second. You have to be on guard, pick off every new shoot that pokes its head out of the ground. You can’t let them settle in; they have to be struck down to keep the numbers from rising up against you. There is no Geneva convention in gardening. Weeds must die, no questions asked. Hunt, seek and destroy is the mission.

Then there is attack by air. Little black, blood sucking bombs, probably in cahoots with the weeds to drive you into the house to help stop the slaughter. You have to wear a suit of armor and helmets with nets, or be eaten alive. Being attacked from above by kamikaze no-see-ums....yes, war is hell!

Fighting over land and beating back the advance of unwanted invaders, hell bent on overcoming and subduing all the domestic occupants is a full on war, one that I will win. My yard is ruled by dictatorship; I am the Weed Nazi. I have weapons of mass destruction; the spade is mightier than the sword. Weeds may take the Hostas but I take no hosta-ges.

There will be war wounds.   Gardening is not for the weak or faint of heart. Scratches and bites, twisted ankles, sunburns, sore backs and aching body parts. And just as you think you’ve won the war, and can sit back for your victory drink to enjoy dominion over the back yard, you have to start the quest all over. More troops come in the night, over land, sea and air. Like man, weeds don’t learn from their mistakes, they keep fighting a futile war.

It’s always a tactical strike. In the spring, Nature sends in the foot soldiers, the dandelion, easily sighted with its large yellow head although never a coward among them.   They pop up with abandon all over the lawn to distract you from the other cavalry advancing on the gardens. You focus on a preemptive strike before they turn to seed and send spores parachuting all over the rest of the yard; next year’s troops. Dandelion roots grow deep and pop up faster than a Whack-A-Mole at the Exhibition.   There are special sniper tools to pick them off but it’s a full time job and you have to man your post day and night.

After the Dandelion invasion, then come the buttercups with their deceptively sweet looking flowers but pack tenacious root systems that put up a real fight. I don’t know all the names of the different weeds; the unknown soldiers of the garden war, but they come in wave after wave to distract and keep you busy while the grass roots send leaders underground to move in for the kill in your flower beds. Grass is my biggest enemy.   As long as it stays on the lawn I tolerate it, but grass knows no boundaries, it creeps over the borders into no weed's land, my garden.

In all wars there’s collateral damage. When the rubber boots accidentally stomp on a tender shoot of your precious perennials or you sit and flatten something that won’t recover this year, or cut off a flower that accidentally got in the way of the pruners. You mourn the loss of each fallen comrade. And the big loss, grab a weed and pull the perennial out with it. Yup, there’s a lot of friendly fire on a mission to beat back the forces, of nature.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this back breaking chore. Why don’t I just plant shrubs or fly the white flag and let the grass take over?   It’s simple really. I love the beauty of a well-appointed garden. I love cutting fresh flowers for my vase. And of course, we all have to do our part to keep the gardening centers in business, where else will we find new little gems to plant each year. New plants to dote over and protect.

Gardening sure is back breaking, dirty work, unless of course you are Martha Stewart who seems to be able to weed wearing Battenberg lace gloves that stay white in the face of dirt. My new yellow rubber boots have taken a hit. Scratched and banged up they no longer look pristine. More collateral damage of this war I am in.

At dusk I surrendered for the day and crawled into the bunkhouse with enough dirt under my fingernails to plant potatoes. Now on leave, I knew there would be a long soak for this General in the claw tub before bed. I'm down temporarily but not defeated, I'll be back at my post tomorrow filling the wheelbarrow with more casualties. I'm a veteran, in it for the long haul, until I surrender the need to garden.........

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Trading Glitz for Ditz!

2/4/2014

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SEE, I'M NOT THE ONLY ONE CONFUSED!

I’d like to think I’m reasonably intelligent, although at times it’s questionable. I’m not exempt from ditzy moments, although as I age they happen less. But when it does occur, I don’t mind having a laugh my own expense, after all I am human and not afraid to admit it.

For those of you south of our border, KY probably has a clear meaning. And considering I send a lot of parcels that way, it should be for me as well. Maybe it’s because last week was tainted by a rather annoying stint of insomnia that haunted every night. Actually, that's a plausible scapegoat…….yah, that's it! Sleep deprivation made me do it!

A customer emailed to say that she would like a pillow designed, and a kit made to say “I Love KY”.   Well, my brain must have been in the middle of an outer body experience because it was obviously MIA. In disbelief, I read the email the second time and still a dense fog messed with the words. I read it a third time and then figured it was a joke. I get spam all the time, solicitations and comments, so I chalked it up to just another bit of junk mail. Really…..why would anyone in their right mind want a pillow that bragged they love KY jelly, a sexual lubricant?

So before I could talk myself out of it, I forwarded the email to my friend with my comment about jelly and the absurdity of it all. I'd been asked to draw some pretty weird things in the past, like design a pattern with a bouquet of penises, which of course I refused to do, so this request wasn't totally out of the left field. But...and there's always that but...maybe if I'd read the email just one more time or let it go until the following day, perhaps I’d have found the clarity to prevent hitting SEND.

Apparently my friend cracked up and then showed her hubby and he followed suit.  An email queried back, "What the hell was wrong with me?" "KY is for Kentucky you twit!" The egg on my face needed a spatula to remove but after the shock of my stupidity passed, I had to laugh....almost peed myself actually. The email was from a woman who loves her State of Kentucky!....not someone sexually charged that's having a love affair with a lubricant.   I blame the ads on TV for planting the sound of those two consonants together….K…Y… for steering my foggy brain off the road and into the gutter.    Sigh……double sigh..….triple sigh……I’ll bet Freud would have something interesting to say about this!?

So how about making me feel better by sharing some of your ditz moments with me?   The one that elicits the biggest chuckle will receive a prezzie. It doesn’t have to be your own zinger, maybe a family member or friend did something that made you roll on the floor laughing. I’m offering Glitz for Ditz….a pair of handmade freshwater pearl earrings, made by yours truly, and because of your head in the cloud moment, I’ll also send you ¼ yard of our newest, hot off the stove, dyed sky.  A scrumptious wool with grey/blue highlights, first abrashed to perfection and then over dyed for colour continuity.   I’m sure this wool will become a top seller, not just for sky but backgrounds, water and so much more! Be the very first to hook with this gorgeous wool! Send me a short quip by clicking the comment button at the top or bottom of this blog page, (not on Facebook). Here is a small example from my own archive of embarrassing moments.

Many years ago I worked with a guy in the accounting department and we often went downtown for lunch together.   He’d purchased a pair of slacks the day before; his wife didn’t like them so he planned to return them to the store. Wanting to go out to eat, I hollered from my desk to his office, “Steve, are you taking your pants down over lunch?”

STEEL BLUE SKY

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What is Boxing Day?

12/27/2013

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It’s early morn.   The sun is unwrapping the darkness, all I see is a narrow golden ribbon around the horizon.   A new dawn bringing a new day. Boxing day. I was lying in bed wondering what that meant. After experiencing 55 of them, I've I'm only now wondering what it means, what is the origin for the term. To me, boxing implies a barbaric sport of men duking it out in a ring, or someone working in a shipping department.   I asked my encyclopaedia of a husband and was surprised that he didn’t know so I left the warmth of my bed to Google it. I couldn’t lay there another second without knowing, even if it meant cold feet because the woodstove would have long since gone out.   I’ve always been inquisitive, as a small child my mother called me nosy, tiring of my zillions of questions, but I just like to know things, store away interesting facts. I may not be a Jack of all trades, but I’m certainly a Jill of some.

Boxing day is traditionally the day following Christmas Day, when servants and tradesmen would receive gifts, knows as a “Christmas Box” from their bosses or employers.

The exact etymology of the term "boxing day" is unclear. There are several competing theories, none of which is definitive. The European tradition, which has long included giving money and other gifts to those who were needy and in service positions, has been dated to the Middle Ages, but the exact origin is unknown. It is believed to be in reference to the Alms Box placed in places of worship to collect donations to the poor. Also, it may come from a custom in the late Roman/early Christian era, wherein metal boxes placed outside churches were used to collect special offerings tied to the Feast of Saint Stephen, which in the Western Church falls on the same day as Boxing Day.

In Britain, it was a custom for tradesmen to collect "Christmas boxes" of money or presents on the first weekday after Christmas as thanks for good service throughout the year as early as December 19th, 1663. This custom is linked to an older English tradition: since they would have to wait on their masters on Christmas Day, the servants of the wealthy were allowed the next day to visit their families. The employers would give each servant a box to take home containing gifts and bonuses, and maybe sometimes leftover food.

When hubby and I first got together I marveled at the extent of his knowledge. He might be the smartest man I’ve ever met and it's a very sexy feature. I like to learn new things, be stimulated mentally by a mate and he certainly fits the bill. Except for the Boxing Day question, I don’t think I’ve ever asked him for information that he couldn't respond to. Once I joked and said, “I don’t know if you're bluffing your way through this to impress me or you really know?” but over time I've grown to respect that my guy has a mild form of genius and accept his explanations as fact. Evidence supports his intelligence considering he married me. Through osmosis, I’ve definitely grown smarter since we married and this reminds me of a funny little story.

About two decades ago, an encyclopedia salesman knocked on the door. Home computers were in vogue offering the world at the tip of a finger, making the need for cumbersome, space hogging volumes of A – Z archaic.   I said upfront I wasn’t interested but he persisted, as they sometimes do, that his new set of Britannica, which came with a hefty price tag of $1000, was top of the line, leather bound with gold embossed covers, and came with a yearly volume of updates to keep up with the changing times, for an additional fee of course. I leaned up against the front door and listened to the spiel with a glazed look in my eye knowing, my lunch was getting cold! Finally I said, “Like I said, I’m not interested in the set. My husband is the smartest person I’ve ever met and he answers all my questions for free….and then added, and he’s updateable from year to year!” The man looked at me and laughed, said that was the first time he’d heard that and left.

Yup, my hubby has a very good brain. He reads books I’d choke over or consider using as doorstops. Books I’d have to read with a dictionary handy. I make no bones that the smarts I have come from life experiences, the school of hard knocks so to speak, but I do have a natural thirst for knowledge, I just don’t need to read the entire story, just digest the interesting highlights.    Why do I have to understand the theory of relativity when I find the fact that Einstein was a sailor and never finished high school more interesting? Making a person real, instead of struggling to understand their insights is more appealing to me, the human interest kind of angle. Let the brainiacs digest the hard stuff.

Hubby reads books on philosophy, history and natural sciences, dummies it down (my terminology not his) to laymen’s terms and fills me in on the highlights. He reads the book and I get the summarized book report. My speed, books on hooking or a juicy murder mystery might fade in comparison in the knowledge department, but I don’t need an interpreter to explain it.

They say opposites attract and it’s very true in our case; hubby and I came together like a couple of magnets. He's obviously the brain of this marriage and I'm the some other word. My specialty is that I collect interesting facts, condensed versions of stories, the sensational stuff. Right now hubby is reading “Let History Judge”, about Russia and Stalin, I can’t even read the print it’s so small and the book size is far too weighty for me. It would be a life sentence to read it, but I look forward to the summation that I’ll get at the end. The five books Santa brought him for Christmas are yawners, and would take me five years of Sundays to read. In his words, “Sometimes it’s tough slog…I read them for the general information. That speaks volumes for his diligence for continued education. For me, reading is work unless there’s enjoyment, once boredom sets in the book is unfinished and forgotten.  Maybe I have the attention span of a knat, but maybe I just want to have fun.

And speaking of work. The shop won’t be open until Saturday December 28th. After two days of cooking, company and going out, Friday is a day to put up my feet, stay in the jammies and rest.   I’ll see you Saturday!

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An update on the bulgy eyed woman and the ring....

11/16/2013

3 Comments

Well, she came back in....for a coffee this time. Apparently I make the best coffee in town. I beg to differ. Although the Keurig is nice, the Biscuit Eater has that title hands down for their Americano.

Anyway, I told her I wasn't in the business of selling coffee, that it was for my customers. She said she hates Tim Horton's and held out four quarters. Now I'm not a heartless bastard but I don't want her hanging around the shop so I made the coffee, handed it to her and said firmly that it was the last cup. She reeked of cigarettes, a smell that repulses me although reminds me of my parents in one swift waft. I joke how I smoked heavily as a small child, two puffing parents with unfiltered cigarettes, yup, I've inhaled in a bit of second hand smoke in my day. Was never interested in the stuff myself. It's hard to be glamorous while green around the gills and almost coughing up the lining of your stomach. Not the movie star look the cigarette manufactures tried to promote.

I wonder what kind of company this ring woman keeps. I get the feeling she isn't someone to have hanging around maybe casing the joint, looking at all my wool. I couldn't resist a dig saying "because she's allergic to wool she shouldn't be in here and she once again said, I'm not allergic to wool, I wear lots of wool things. So she isn't sticking to her lie and that dead critter is beaten as far as I can go.

Then she volunteered an update on the ring. Apparently someone stole it off her. She called an appraiser in Halifax and took the ring in and he took off with it. Boy, maybe I was wrong about that bit of bling....it was obviously very valuable, worth enough to leave a legitimate business for, run off and leave the wife and kiddies to wallow in the lap of luxury on some far away island. Yup, sure missed out on the a deal of a lifetime there.......

Remember Don Knotts? I was searching for a bulgy eyed woman picture and he popped up. What blast from my past. I'll never forget The Ghost and Mr. Chicken when he spent the night in a haunted house...my favourite of the series of movies he made in the 60's. And remember Frances the Talking Mule with Donald O'Conner? Loved that stuff! They don't make them like that any more....good clean fun. Inspiring laughter so hard that tears run down your leg!

3 Comments

Freaky faces, not just for Halloween........

11/1/2013

2 Comments

I was a bit mortified this evening. A gal came by the other day and said she saw that I was working late on Monday night. She said she saw me at my desk drawing patterns and wanted to know if I ever go home. I didn’t think much about the comment until this evening when I was again working late at the desk and then it hit me, OMG…..

I do this stupid thing with my face when I work. So I’m standing there with a weird twist to my jaw, looking like I don’t have any teeth and part of my jawbone is missing.

And worse, when I cut backing,  the sawing action of the scissors triggers my jaw to pump in rhythm. What the heck is that all about? I’ve noticed in the past when I’m using the sewing machine, I’m doing something weird with my mouth, cocking my lower jaw to the left and curling my upper lip.   I kinda feel like Elvis, "Thankyou, Thankyouverymuch"

I understand the face is an open book for lifting and straining. Constipation can screw it up royally and lifting something heavier than a toaster might make you grit the teeth, but pushing a Sharpie marker, come on, that's like licking ice cream, why the face?   Do any of you do this kind of thing or am I some sort of mouth freak?   Maybe I'll get Shane to take a picture of me doing this to see how bad it actually is and if it isn't too offensive, I'll post it.     Update on the photo (Nope, not gonna happen....not a flattering image...something best hung in the basement to scare rats away!)

At the shop in the evenings, I stand in front of the big plate glass window never thinking twice about all the people walking or driving by. I look out and see darkness so I feel cocooned and private, but they all look in at a brightly lit room and there's me doing weird things with my face.

Now I know we all do things when we don’t realize people are watching. I’ve seen a good many drivers engaged in nasal penetration. For some reason we think we can’t be seen because we’re on the move? The fact that the car is made up of about 30% windows makes it nothing more than a mobile fish bowl.  Don't go for the boogie, we see you and want to keep our breakfast down!

When driving, I’m guilty of a few air guitar solos and belting out the tunes into a fist mike, but I keep my fingers out of the orifices of my face and never, ever touch my eyes. I saw a show once that left a lasting impression; where a guy bit off his finger because he had it in his mouth during a rear-ender at a four way stop.  One big gulp and the digit landed in his stomach. Whether it’s truth or an urban legend, it does get you thinking. Touching around the eyes could result in a nasty incident so I stay well clear of handling any part of my face in a parked or moving vehicle.

I know a woman who drives with her mouth agape, her lower jaw hangs as if the muscle gave up the ghost, you just know there's drool. She’s intelligent and normally very pretty, but seeing her behind the wheel, not so much. So why do we do these things? There must be a reason behind the phenomena and this inquiring mind needs to know.   As for me working in front of the window, I'll be more aware that I'm on public display, keeping the facial tics in check along with making sure I'm buttoned up and wearing make-up.....

2 Comments

How much is too much.....how little is too little?

10/1/2013

2 Comments

"If the customer is always right, then why isn't everything free?" Unknown

How much is too much and where do you draw the line? I'm talking about customer service.  For the non hooking person that wanders into my shop, after the initial "hello" and "let me know if there is anything I can do for you", I wait and see what parts of the store peaks their interest. I read body language before I ask if they would like a rug hooking demonstration and can tell in a glance if they are interested or just well mannered.

For the rugs hookers that come into the shop, some need more assistance than others and you hope they are forthcoming in their request for help. Personally I hate hovering and won't disrespect your space.   But if you ask for my opinion I am there for you. I never want anyone in my shop to feel pressured or claustrophobic by my presence but I don't want you to feel ignored either. The trick is to read the situation right and know when to back off and when to offer added help.

I'm not a mind reader but I seem to have a natural instinct, gut feeling or whatever it may be that seems to work 90% of the time. I can usually tell by a glance if a person entering the shop is just being curious of what lies on the other side of my door, or if they have a budding interest in the craft. But of course I probably screw up at times, not pay enough attention to some and I've had a few people huff out the door indignant that I didn't fall all over them. I'm human and prone to error so I can't get it right all the time.

Lots of times I'm like a bartender, a captive audience for non rug hookers who want to tell me their entire life story and I have no problem listening but I have to work while you talk. If I stand around and chat with every person with a tale to tell, I would have to work nights to get anything done so I do the best I can to remain interested while my hands are busy drawing a pattern or cutting a kit or whatever.

Not everyone is new recuit material and I definitely don't chase people out the door forcing business cards into their hand either, but if you seem genuinely interested I'll bring up my website and leave it up to the individual to take or leave the rack card. These cards cost money so handing them out with abandon just to have them biffed in the nearest bin is a waste. You can tell when you hand them a card if they are keen or just being polite, they actually look at it, maybe even turn it over to see what information is listed.

I know how I like to be treated in a store. I appreciate being acknowledged with a polite hello and you can ask if I need assistance but after that I like to be left alone. I know what I want and I know if an item of apparel flatters or fattens me, so I can be left to my own devices. If needed, I am more than capable of asking for help.

Back in the day of Bill's Store, here in Mahone Bay, the building where the Mahone Bay Trading Company is now located, customer service was frustrating and more than a little annoying. If you were in the change room trying on a bra or a bathing suit, just at the peak time of naked, the curtain would be ripped opened and you'd be scrutinized and asked how things are going while all your parts hung out for them and the other store browsers to see. After happening several times, I never shopped there again. It was the only clothing store game in town but I took my custom to Bridgewater, the cashiers being far less nosy. Maybe it was a different time and that's how the cookie crumbled, but someone told me years later that the owners were paranoid about shop lifters so what better way to make sure someone wasn't stuffing a dress into their purse.....watch them undress! If that happened today you'd get the apparel and nasty words flung at you, but back then, quiet as a churchmouse, my face almost hemorrhaged with embarrassment.

So....as the patrons leave my shop I always try to say "Thank-you" or "Have a nice day" and then maybe "Enjoy your holiday" for the tourists. Without customers we would be nothing, so we like to appreciate their interest and you never know when they'll tell someone of their fun experience to the millions of rug hookers who haven't heard of us yet!

Thought this was a hoot as well.

2 Comments

The Story of Sid And Sadie

8/23/2013

23 Comments

It was love at first sight. Sid saw Sadie across a crowded toy room and was smitten immediately.   He put his best foot forward and courted Sadie and the pair became inseparable. After a little monkeying around, they tied a double knot.

They were quite the pair walking down the isle and at their reception they danced toe to toe, taking a bit of needling for acting like a couple of crazy socks.   Everyone they knew attended the wedding; distant cousins, the Anklets and Kneehighs, Uncle Tube and Auntie Crew. A jock friend, Athletic arrived last minute, while the Thrum family flew in from Newfoundland.  Grandpa Argyle arrived from the British Isles. The cast of characters filled the first three rows in the church and Sid's brother Bobby, a sock of the cloth, officiated at the ceremony.

Like Noah's ark they arrived in pairs and pretty much everyone made it accept for a couple of Leotards that were totally out of fashion and not missed.    At the reception, the crowd was scarfing down the food and watched as Sid did the garter stitch and made a few yokes about his bride.   The guests threw rice stitches as they left for their honeymoon.

Their wedding was a blissful yarn and during the honeymoon, a seed was stitched  and nine months later they were stocking their family tree with a pair of little sockettes, Knit and Purl.     Unfortunately tragedy struck and the Knit one went missing in an unfortunate dryer incident and the Purl one disappeared after being tinkered with by the Afghan Hound, family pet the following week. Devastated by the loss Sid and Sadie didn't have the Red Heart to make any more little socks.

And because knit happens, in the fifties, during a mid life crisis, Sid got an itch and became a woolmanizer, falling head over heels in love with the curvaceous Barbie, the new toy in the box. He gave Sadie the slip, knotty boy, to pursue his new paramour but their relationship lacked stuffing, she was only using him to keep her feet warm and dropped him like a stitch once Ken came on the scene.

Sadie had been terribly hurt, what was she a muggle?   Sid knew he was a heel and didn't try to pull the wool over her eyes but hoped they could patch their life together. He didn't try to push his affections on her because she had two long sharp sticks but dropped to his knees and begged for her forgiveness, and when it came down to the knitty gritty, she decided to give him a second chance but not before dropping a few stitches on his legs so he couldn't wander off again. He was grateful for her forgiveness and it saved him from unraveling.

So to advance this yarn forward, although their love had worn a bit thin, with time they were able to patch the hole and lived a darned near perfect life.

**************************************************************************************

Now lets get down to the knitty gritty. The first person to guess how many sock names and puns, wool terms and knitting references I have blended into the above tale you will win 2 patterns, one of Sid and the other of Sadie, in 16 x 16 size on linen or burlap...your choice. Click the comment button above and leave your guess. If no one hits the total I'll choose the closest number. Good luck!

23 Comments

Mistakes, I've made a slew.....

7/12/2013

5 Comments

"Mistakes, I've made a slew,
so it's time to make a mention...
There will be more, much more than this,
cause I do it my way.

For me, writing is bittersweet. I love playing with words but my editing skills suck! I can't seem to put out a perfect blog, when I read it back I only see what was in my head, not all the mistakes my fingers make. Some misspellings are caught with spell check, others sneak through but it's the ones that I screw up on consistently that annoy me. Why can't I see them?    I can read the story over and over and not see the error of my ways as my brain skips over the misspelled words like a flat rock on a still lake. If I don't force myself to slow down and concentrate on each individual word I goof.

Some people think the wheel and sliced bread are revolutionary but I think Spell Check is right up there with the greatest of life's tools. Without it, my warts would show as I can't spell for beans.  I couldn't fight my way out of a wet bag of words unless they were all two or three letters.

Sometimes printing the story will help, seeing it in another format other than the computer screen; mistakes will jump off the page as if catapulted from a loaded gun. But there are some words that spell check accepts as real words and this blog doesn't come with a bad grammar detector so I screw up "it's" versus "its" a lot. I completely know the difference but my darn fingers are typing so quickly that one or the other shoots out randomly and it's a fifty/fifty chance of being right.   I am more than familiar with the word "lose" but my fingers type "loose" every bloody time. It's like a programed, ingrained blunder that I can't seem to overcome. My subconscious plays tricks on me, setting me up for embarrassment when it should have my back.

I can read a blog ten times and finally give it the okay but once published, I read it again and go oh crap. It's an interesting phenomena, not being able to see my own mistakes, because if asked to check other people's work, I can spot a blooper a mile away.   For me, self editing is like self medicating, not recommended.

I know I goof, I have my friends on alert to point them out...I go ooops and fix the most blatant of screw-ups but it's too late, everyone saw them and I feel like I've been caught in my undies. But then I think why? It's not like I'm a professional writer that needs to polish every word, phrase or sentence. Blogs are for fun right? Chasing perfectionism is a race I'll never win so I need to be content to walk instead of run. I'm not so anal that I loose sleep over it...crap...see I did it again...I'm nothing if not consistent!

The fact that I feel compelled to confess this flaw means it bothers me more than I care to admit but now that it's out in the open I can go on butchering words and be covered under the umbrella of admission. So I'm sending a huge apology for all the mistakes I've made in the past, the ones I will undoubtedly do today and all those looming ahead in my future. I guess I just need to accept the things I cannot change............I'll continue to enjoy playing around with words, but have to accept that I just can't spell them!

5 Comments

Every day is like a box of chocolates.......

6/10/2013

52 Comments

"Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind
don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind. "– Dr. Seuss

My shop is magical in that it’s always full of surprises. Like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re in for when you walk through the door. Sometimes I wonder while driving to the shop what will happen next and so far I’m never disappointed. Someone or something will unravel a story whether good, bad or ugly, but assuredly as I’m sitting here, something will liven up the day. The best days will be someone bringing in a finished rug for show and tell, the eye candy of this business that's sweeter than maple syrup. I don’t know if every life is this exciting but there’s a silver lining following me around, sometimes disguised as a black cloud, but every day yields a story to exercise my chops on. Either someone comes in and is so delightful you feel like a warm and fuzzy Care Bear or there will be an "incident", someone being rude for no reason other than they think the world uses them as its axis, but I'll tell you now, there's only room for one on that pole and I've been swinging off it for some time! But seriously, whatever happens is novel, something to be excited over or bitch about; fodder for blogs and my stand-up routine at Wednesday evening hook-ins.

The week before last we had a surprise visit from Deanne Fitzpatrick who was combing around this part of the province visiting with old friends and meeting new. She's a long term friend of Doris Eaton so they had a lovely catch-up and then visited the surrounding studios in the county. This was her first trip to our new shop and I was happy to show it off. She’s hooking royalty around these parts….more people know her name than the pope. She bought some wool and then was gone but we squeezed in a quick photo op.

Deanne, me and Jake posing. Don't really know what happened in this picture because I look like I'm wearing maternity wear. To dispel an potential rumours, No...I am not pregnant! Note to self: Throw shirt in trash!

With the rain pouring down as if Noah launched a boat, I figured Saturday would be a laid back kind of day but of course I was wrong. Sue came by to hook on her latest project, a rug for a friend’s shop, Linda Ruth of Come By Chance antiques, the best antique shop on the south shore. Linda Ruth has opened a section of her large barn to display and sell her hooked rugs and Sue has a number of pieces for sale as well. This area is so rich with rug hooking history and hookers per capita that it’s well worth a visit to Nova Scotia. As well, the Rug Hooking Museum of North America will soon have its official opening and that should bring people in droves, not only rug hookers but rug enthusiasts, people who love and appreciate our craft. The shops, rug hookers of note and those of us who just do it for fun combined with the museum should put Nova Scotia on the map for Rug Hooking.

So, Saturday Sue was in doing some hooking and keeping me company on a miserable damp day and I was drawing off a few new designs when a group of women popped in that had been at the museum and were told my shop was a must see. As the doors swelled open and the women swarmed the shop the energy they brought was palpable. Fun gals from all over Canada, out for a good time and in search of a laugh. They were a group of friends who decided to meet up for a bit of holiday fun and were hitting the shops. None were hookers, although one had tried it. One was self proclaimed craft challenged, but one from Halifax thought it would be interesting to take a class, as long as it was “fun” being the prerequisite. Three stayed behind while the rest left to check out the consignment shop next door.

How talk got around to boobies is lost on me but complaints about the weight and size of the larger chest was mentioned and before we knew what was happening one of the women had lifted her shirt to show us her reduction from a G to darn near perfect C. I haven’t seen anything that perky for a very long time and maybe never did as I don’t recall a time not being able to stash paper money under mine for safe keeping...who needs a fanny pack! They’ve been laying on my chest since I was a teen, an unexpected lifelong reminder for getting married and having a baby way too young.

The female breast is a beautiful thing. I used to think that back in the day of life drawing classes. So round, so smooth so fully formed. And I‘ve seen a set or two on television that can make a girl green with envy.   Breasts so firm they wouldn’t move if their owner jumped up and down on a trampoline, whereas I might sustain an eye injury!

At this point in my life the breast barely gets a second thought...I’m more interested in hooking perfection than anything to do with my anatomy but the shock of seeing breasts in the shop, especially such fine specimens, caused my jaw to bruise my foot as it dropped and all I could say through the drool was a very sincere “OMG they’re fabulous!”

Her breasts still showed the fading scars of surgery but you could see they were well on the mend and on their way to being a chest that wouldn’t need a bra. It would be a crime to conceal them behind lace and material after the surgeon had sculpted perfection. These breasts needed to be shown, used as examples or modeled for artists, papers need to be written about them…made famous as the poster breasts for augmentation.

In the woman’s opinion, the result was well worth the 10 weeks of recovery and there was no pain except for taking one Advil the first day after surgery. She said she had it done for medical reasons. A smaller woman, her G sized breasts caused surmountable back and shoulder pain, and truthfully I had no frame of reference of anything that size but it sounded way bigger than any number I’m familiar with, maybe Dolly could relate, I don’t know.

So now she is a C and loving it. She’s a nurse so did all the research and found the best surgeon and was completely happy with the results and recommended it highly. The thing that made me squirm was the nipple replacement. They cut off her actual nipples and sewed them back on where they should be…somewhere between the elbow and the shoulder. I didn’t know that…I always thought the bellybutton was a good level…..

She left the surgeon’s information but I’m too much of a coward. If it is needed for medical reasons the operations is free and if it’s cosmetic the price tag is $5000.00. The money was inconsequential, if I wanted it done badly enough I wouldn’t blink. I probably have enough discomfort to warrant it done for medical reasons but if not, that’s only the price of three or four poodles and I don’t drink or smoke so I must have a credit somewhere for good living!

I do have problems with bras. They cause cramps in my chest as the back strap wheedles its way between my ribs and makes the muscles sore. Lately I’ve been more sensitive to it with my heart skipping all over the place so I am wearier about my posture and any discomfort in that area.   Sometimes it hurts while I hook because I am leaning forward just a bit too much and there was that humiliating story about the hospital run I wrote about not so long ago. And let's face it, some of the bras we bustier women are forced to wear make you feel like you’re armoured and heading into battle like Zena the Warrior Princess!

If…and there’s that big if…I thought I would make it through the operation without any complications or infections etc., I might consider it more seriously.  It would be nice to not suffer cramps from bra bands or wear clothes without having that peek-a-boo gap between the buttons.  Finding tops that fit would be nice and I could do without always shifting clothes for comfort. My chest could be more a part of me instead of entering a room before the rest of my frame.   Despite my complaints I'm happy with my body, this is the lot I've been handed and I'm fine with that. My chest is really a non issue if not for the occasional discomfort from muscle cramping. I believe everyone has to do what's best for them and for me, I'll never go for it, I’m a big coward. My worry wart dad ingrained a cautionary personality. I hear the horror stories, and yes, of course, that’s all one ever hears, but where there’s smoke there’s fire so it’s something that needs to weigh in on the decision making. Even a one in a million screw up is grim odds for me. I wouldn’t want something nasty to happened and be that person who died due to complications of unnecessary breast augmentation. I’d never live that down……

So not every day you get to see boobies at work. It was definitely a different, educational and thought provoking day. Sue and I were impressed by the woman’s candour and ability to bare it all. She is definitely the poster child for breast reduction with her amazing success story and I just have to add, she has one incredible rack!   So....one wonders what might happen next……………..

All Gulls, No Buoys 22" x 16 1/2"

Today will be another guessing game for a free pattern. Hot of the press I thought one of Sue Cunningham's Women of Abundance would fit the theme of today's blog. There isn't any frontal indulgence but plenty from behind. "All Gulls, No Buoys" is a fun play on words and in this delightful design both slender and large women share equal billing. If you would like a chance to win this pattern on linen, click on the comment and leave your vote for the number in my head from 1-50. I will announce the winner at the end of the day.

Coincidentally, there must be something in the water as the two previous winners were both from my neck of the woods. So lets see if we can get a winner from across Canada or from one of our hooking sisters south of us. Good luck all!

52 Comments

Happy Mother's Day everyone!

5/12/2013

0 Comments

True love is taking the wool off your back....to share!

To all the mothers out there, even those
with hairy kids.....

Happy Mother's Day!

From Shane and Christine

Dye roses red
Spot Violet's blue
Hooking's so sweet
Just like ewe too!

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Beading for charity.....

5/10/2013

1 Comment

Here we are a bunch of blingers. My friend Joan Larsen Folkers is visiting from Mexico and when she's in my neck of the woods the beads come out and we play and invent things. Joan is busy making little Cell phone or purse bling and a couple of ankle bracelets and I am securing a brooch pin on the back of a wire bird nest that I will donate to the SBPA to cover spays and neuters for dogs and cats in Mexico.

I've been collecting beads for years and at one time sold finished necklaces and earrings in the shop. I got a bit obsessed and was buying beads so fast I couldn't keep up with the production line of finished pieces. The old black and white Lucille Ball skit in the chocolate factory comes to mind. For those who have never seen this bit of television history click the link to watch. It's a hoot! (Sorry I could make this a live link so if you cut and paste it in Youtube it will work.) www.youtube.com/watch?v=8NPzLBSBzPI

As the beads piled up I got overwhelmed so now I have a gross amount of fabulous bling packed away in boxes crying to be taken out and loved. Exquisite beads from all over the world, handmade and sold by the artist.  No Chinese knockoffs for me! In the trade they refer to themselves as SRA, self representing artists. Nothing is mass produced and some are one of a kind.  Some of my favorites came from Germany, they know how to make luxurious, high end beads that people will zoom in on when you walk into a room. You name it and I have it. All the findings, spacer beads, chains, pearls and high quality handmade lampwork beads you could ask for.   There is enough to open a small store and I've considered it many times in that new back room, but hooking is the number one game around here so I'll just forget about the beads for a bit and haul them out when I have a better plan.

I'm not sure what all the beads represent other than a fascination with sparkly things or maybe I should use the other F word, fetish. And I will admit I went overboard, almost a panic to have it all. My mother called me "crow" when I was a child as I combed the neighbourhood for pieces of broken glass, collected the foil from  cigarette packages and anything that caught the glint of the sun or my eye.   I was doomed from the beginning, but thankfully it's now behind me, literally and figuratively, in boxes in my office.

I sold pretty much 75% of the necklaces sets I made and had enough interest to go on to do a bit of silversmithing and wire wrapping, but I grew tired as the reality set in that I couldn't run two separate business simultaneously and do the justice they both deserved. I had to make a choice and rug hooking won, it was my first entrepreneurial birth so the new bundle was packed away.  Spreading myself too thin served nothing except sleepless nights and disappointment and good intentions weren't enough to keep going.  A number of customers have several pieces of my jewellery and I see them every now and then and think wow, I made that. But it isn't enough to woo me back to the bling table.  Someday when the time is right it will be like Christmas, opening all of those fabulous boxes to reacquaint myself with the treasures within.

Joan and I will get elbow deep in the beads a few more times before she leaves. I plan to donate several more pieces to support the SBPA's auction. Maybe you could check out their Facebook and give them a LIKE. It's a great cause and your like will help spread awareness. www.facebook.com/pages/SBPA-San-Carlos/197277600418611

The SBPA in San Carlos Mexico is an organization dedicated to minimizing unwanted dog and cat population by providing free Spay and Neuter Certificates to anyone that needs financial assistance. The SBPA is dedicated to the protection of animals, domestic and feral, and to the alleviation of suffering created by their uncontrolled reproduction. To this end, we believe that spay and neuter is the best solution to the overpopulation problem. Check out their website.
http://sbpasancarlos.org/

Putting the finishing touches on a little necklace for her puppy. Every dogs needs some special bling when everyday attire won't do.

Friends who bling together stay together! It's fun to have friends with like minded interests. Joan is a great gal, I wish she lived here full time instead of only a few weeks a year maybe she would inspire me to make jewelry again!

I just taught Joan to make wrap twists for drops. She's busy making a few special little gifts for friends back home.

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Hooker's Serenity Prayer

5/6/2013

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Hooker's Serenity Prayer

Grant me the wisdom to accept the wools that might be too thick
courage to take on the wools too thin
and the hook that can handle the difference.

Hooking one rug at a time;
Enjoying the journey one loop at a time;
Accepting hardships as I run short of a piece;
Taking as we find it, wool from any source
As it is, not as I can dye it;
Trusting the chosen colours will make things right
If I surrender to a specific colour plan;
That I may be reasonably happy with my technique
And supremely happy with the rug;
Forever until the next.

Amen

And in keeping with a prayer, the three iconic churches have a heavenly aura. This picture represents what we Mahone Bayer's hold dear in our hearts. Our little piece of heaven here on earth! What a beautiful place to visit and hook.

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The Proposition

5/2/2013

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I wrote this bit of prose a few years back when a CBC Radio show, Richardson's Round-up, (Bill Richardson)) put out a call for submissions of verse about panties. They were going to compile the winning entries into a published book. This was a "little" verbiage I whipped up. It didn't make the cut but was fun to do.

This is a true story. The woman at the line was my mother and the Police Chief was a real wolf in sheep's clothing, who had a known appetite for afternoon delights. In our old neighbourhood the empty cruiser was found parked next to the Legion often. Mom used to peek through the curtains at Mrs. So-In-So's house, whose husband made a lot of trips out of town. Back then, I remember overhearing my dad say the Chief was screwing the taxpayers, but I don't know if it was a figurative or literal comment...although in this case, it could have been both.....

I hooked this piece last evening to go with the poem....tying in a bit of rug hooking with a bit of fun.

THE PROPOSITION

The Chief of Police was a man of size
triple chinned and bold as brass
who sought entrance to the boudoirs of stay-at-home wives
using his badge as leverage
to prey on loneliness with wolfish charm.

One day he glimpsed a woman hanging laundry
her dress whipped by summer breezes, wrapped tight against her form
a rarer beauty had never been seen
with raven hair like flowing silk
and lips of ruby, full and sensuous.

His hungry eyes devoured her
thirsting her essence through parched desire,
he entered her driveway with more on his mind than a social call
to be greeted with a neighbourly smile
from lips that could set a lover’s heart ablaze.

Possessing her made him eager and brash
but this woman was not to be fooled
and the twinkle in her eye turned to merriment as he canted his proposition
“If you ever get lonely, hang three pairs of panties on the line,
a sign the coast is clear.”

Amused, the woman's smile transformed to gales of laughter
slashing away at his arrogant pride
turning his face fifty shades of red
he quickly drove off with his tail between his legs
licking the wound of rejection.

Occasionally, the woman would notice other wash lines about town
with a trio of panties strung along the wire
silky invitations to private liaisons
and a black and white cruiser never far away
parked in conspicuous places.

THE END

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The Tennis Club dance that changed my life.....

5/1/2013

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You can’t accuse me of being bias, for I speak the truth.....the simple fact is that I am married to the most wonderfully man in the universe. A creature so rare that I dare not speak of his attributes or I would be responsible for the envy of women and the dissension among men.  Our relationship is fairy tale and considering the long line of toads I was kissing, well, all I can say "it's quite the relief".

It was the luck of the draw, a one in a million chance meeting that brought us together, ironically by the hand of the guy I was currently dating, the last toad in the long succession of bully frogs. Well aware that as couple we were going nowhere, I’d been tolerating him for months as an  escort to social functions while I waited for Mr. Right to happen my way. Despite my lack of luck in the romance department, I still held on to the hope that there was someone out there who would treat me with decency and respect.

The guy I was dating began as love at first site and seemed to have a lot of promise, but as the petals of our rose quickly wilted and dropped, so did his civility towards me.  It was all about power struggles and games with him, a tiring relationship with a dead end future.  I had been married to someone abusive and after the divorce I dated a few Mr. Wrongs, but this guy was really hurtful in his attitude toward me, personal stuff I don't need to divulge but degrading in his comments and just as a small example, continually told me I was fat when my body was leaner than a steel fence post. I knew I would never live under the same roof with him. He was a belittling person, one who constantly put himself first, as he stomped others into the ground with his judgements and criticisms. He was by far the most arrogant and condescending person I have ever met, and not just to me but everyone around him. There was never any loyalty for friends or family as everyone was on his chopping block.

From the moment we met he called me Chrissy, a variation of my name that I never liked. He asked what I preferred to be called, Christine, Chris or Chrissy and when I said the latter annoyed me, Chrissy it was. From day one he wanted to burrow under my skin as any irritant would and create a rash or festering sore.    In the beginning, I cared for him so it was more like teasing, but in a few months the veneer of tolerance was gone and he just infuriated me.   But in the meantime we had a group of friends that I liked and wanted to stay in contact with and I knew that would stop as soon as we split.

The first time he took me home to meet his mother she'd prepared a lovely lunch of curried haddock and salad. The food was lovely and served on china with sterling flatware and linen napkins. This was the life I longed for, a bit of civility and class. I was, and still am, an old soul with a fetish for  bone china, formal tables settings and polishing the family silver.  I was young and figured I could learn a lot from his mom who was very comfortable with the finer things in life. So we are sitting at a lovely table, lunch is delicious and the conversation is flowing in this get-to-know me gathering.

I finished the delightful lunch leaving one lone slice of tomato on the plate, placed my utensils in the proper finished position and dabbed the corners of my mouth with my napkin while thanking my host for the meal. She looked at my plate and then at me and said, "There's just that little piece of tomato left, surely you can eat it."  It was a statement not a question.

Now I just came from a long marriage with a mother-in-law from hell. She took great pleasure in using me as a kicking can and her cruelty had fewer boundaries than her abusive son. The apple didn't fall from that tree and truthfully her son had a great teacher. Something inside of me clicked, like a switch going off.  If this relationship kept heading into the future, I didn't want our relationship to start with her telling me what to do, especially when I ws trying to gain my self esteem back from the hard knocks of my past. I knew from experience, once that Pandora is out of the box, you can't stuff it back in.

So I said very politely, that I was full and was saving myself for dessert.   She smiled and reached across the table and pushed my plate closer and said once again, "Well it's only one little slice, surely you can fit that in?"   There was something in her tone that unsettled me and they way she was staring at me from under her furrowed brow. Truthfully I didn't like tomatoes and only ate the one slice out of respect for my host. I've always found tomatoes too acidic and they make the roof of my mouth feel raw. So I said.

"Well, tomatoes aren't my favorite thing, I would rather save myself for dessert."

And once again she reached over and pushed my plate even closer, now it was hanging a bit over the edge of the table, one more good push and it would be in my lap.

"Come on, you can eat it. It's only one little slice." The sound of her voice was almost frantic now, the sweetness had abandoned ship. I said nothing so she reached over yet again and gave the plate one teensy little push, not enough to topple it but now it was hanging on by a hair.

"Oh, come on, eat the tomato!"

Now things were awkward. All eyes were on me and I was trying to figure out what to say or do next when her son, my date, jumped up and screamed at his mother "JC mother...why don't you just cram it down her GD throat?!!" (I've abbreviated the swear words as not to offend.)

Well, his mom started to cry, the father started hollering at his son and I wanted to crawl under the table and take that piece of tomato with me. I wondered what in blazes just happened?   I would find out sooner than later that there was a lot of arguing in that house, mother and son pushing each other's buttons. They were a family of scrappers and the mom and her sisters had a history of drag em out fights.   My date grabbed my arm and dragged me out of there as I blurted out a few apologies. The whole lunch was in ruins.  How I wished I'd eaten the bloody tomato or hidden it in my purse or something. Although in retrospect, I think it was all for the best, letting me know the score in the early days.

So we are out in the car and I'm looking at him with different eyes knowing that once again I'd made a mistake in judgement.  So I say to him, "That was uncalled for, I hope you don't think you can treat me that way?" To which he replied...."I have more respect for you Chrissy...."   I knew right then I was in trouble and put the breaks on my feelings.  My mother's wise words always warned that you can tell how a man will treat you by the way he treats his mother. Somehow I was attracting the wrong kind of fella, there must have been a big D for doormat plastered on my forehead.

I remember the evening that changed my life and broke old patterns well.  We were at the Blockhouse Fire hall, May 28th, 1988, for a fund raising dance to promote the Mahone Bay Tennis Club. The band was fantastic, playing fifties tunes that filled the crowd with nostalgia.   As in any typical date, there I sat, while our friends were out on the floor cutting a rug. I was dying to dance but Mr. Controversy  saw fit to be antagonistic, not give the lady what she wants which pretty much summed up our entire relationship. While he was content to annoy me and sip his scotch, I’m tapping away with feet and fingers to the music, bopping my little heart out and dying to get out on the floor. I asked him three times to dance before spite crawled to the surface and I did a mental calculation of how long it would take to hoof the two kilometers home.

“Why did we come here if you had no intention to dance?” I asked.

“Look, Chrissy”, oh how he loved to drag out the syllables to purposely irk me, then continued in his pompous way…”If you want to dance so much, why don’t you ask someone.” He was gleefully pushing my buttons, he almost squirmed from the pleasure of it all. The thought of me out there cruising for a dance partner delighted him. Probably because he thought I would fail. Being a newly divorced woman, still young and rather fit, I could have stirred the pot as women guarded their men from the clutches of a wanton divorcee.

“I don’t know anyone here without a partner,” I retorted haughtily, “But if there was a single, available man I’d ask him to dance in an instant.” And I snapped my fingers with sass, to show how fast I would act.

I guess he took that as a personal challenge because he brazenly stood and pointed his finger into the crowd, moving it around while combing the hall for prospective dance partners. He swung a few degrees to the left and his pointer landed on a man that I’d never seen before.

“Look, Chrissy, there’s Gregg Little” he enunciated the words in a hissing sort of way and continued, “He’s new in town, and single, why don’t you go over there and ask him to dance?” Then he laughed like a hyena and looked at me so smugly I fought the urge to slap him.

“I don’t know him, but if you introduce me, I’ll ask him!” Of course we were hollering, the music was very loud but he heard me and collected my hand, patting it as we parted the throng of gyrating dancers on our way across the hall.

Gregg sat alone, nursing a rum and coke while watching the crowd on the floor. He jumped up as we approached and seemed genuinely happy to meet me. After brief introductions, where I was referred to as Chrissy, I stuck my hand out for a shake and said firmly that my name was Christine and then promptly asked if he would like to dance.  So we danced....then danced again, pretty much danced every number, chatting in between sets and then back up on the floor as soon as the music fired up again. This guy clearly knew how to speak to a woman, was mannered to the hilt, interesting and cute.

I was kicking up my heels and having one heck of a time when the boyfriend, who I had forgotten about and who apparently realized his arrogance had backfired, cut in with the line, “Hey, Chrissy, they’re playing our song!”   I didn’t miss a beat as I shouted back, “Since when did WE
ever have a song?”

After that he sat in a corner and sulked, like the immature baby that he was, while I continued to enjoy the music and the new guy. Gregg was turning out to be very nice and if the truth be known, I would have allowed him to escort me home if he’d asked, maybe I secretly hoped he would, but I knew I had to breakup with the old before I started anything new.  If Gregg wondered about my relationship with my so called date, he never asked, and if he had I would have told him right then and there that the guy barely qualified as a friend. No one treats a friend the way he treated me so it wasn’t far from the truth.

It was anything but a quiet ride home. The two kilometers was used to tell him exactly what I thought of him.    My sights were now on someone a little further up the evolutionary scale, a real man, with manners, who believed that decency was always the right choice. I ended up marrying Gregg, and have never looked back. He shows me respect, equality and love, all any person can ask for.  He never has a harsh word for me no matter how frustrating I might get. Mother always said that you kiss a few toads before you find your prince, and I happily crawled out of the swamp that warm spring evening at the Mahone Bay Tennis club dance and never looked back!

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A "Little" Bit of Italy.....

4/22/2013

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Last year, three of us went out to dinner to try a new Italian restaurant and the experience didn't quite meet our expectations.

Newly opened they were ironing out a few bugs and that is to be expected, it's a lot to put a restaurant together, tweaking the menu and trying to give the place a welcoming décor.  Like Casey, I usually give a restaurant three tries before they're out, after that there isn't much hope it will improve.

I have this thing about hating to pay for food when I know I can make it better at home. If it isn't too costly that's fine, but when it's supposed to be high end I begrudge paying the bill and the first strike is on the board. I inherited my mother's prowess in the kitchen so I know my way around a recipe and have come up with a few of my own, so when I'm out for a meal on the town I want to be wowed. I want to think...gee, I wish I could make that! Or, I wonder what they used in this? I want to get my money's worth that's all and if I can do it better it leaves a bad taste in my mouth in more ways than one.

The restaurant we were sampling was still waiting on their liquor license and I was told when I made the reservation that we could bring our own wine and pay a corkage fee. That's fine but when we all showed up with wine, the three bottles were swept from the table, opened and brought back. Now I'm no drinker and we were out for a casual meal not a bender and when we protested we were told we couldn't take it back home so they would keep it until we came back another time, but of course that was presumptuous and once opened, wine goes off taste. So it was doomed for the drain or we had to do our best to "drain" it.  Waste not want not right?

The problem for me, one has to build up a tolerance to alcohol...over time...slowly.   I'm like a baby in that one smell of the cork is enough to find me under the table or dancing on top of it depending on the mood or possibly the music.   So it hit me like a lead brick before the main course was finished and I don't remember tasting or seeing dessert at all. Apparently we ordered a round of Tiramisu.

One thing I do remember as I staggered along the sidewalk was making the announcement that I could make better lasagna with my eyes closed. So I put my money where my mouth was and held a little dinner party the following Friday evening.

Back in the day before opening the shop when I had time to play, I loved cooking, throwing dinner parties and making fancy garnishes, so  I thought it would be fun to add a bit of atmosphere to the table which was one of the complaints at the restaurant. Bare tables and not that much ambiance made the place feel cold and unfriendly. We suggested they add a bit of checkered cloth, bistro the place up a bit, but that was met with a rather damp reply. Maybe we were rude to suggest it but after all that wine our tongues had a mind of their own.

Later I was disappointed to find they'd ordered in dusty rose table cloths, that had absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the décor or Italy for that matter. Personally, I thought dusty rose died in the eighties and wasn't worth resuscitation. Sorry, I'm allergic to the colour and break out in a terrible case of nose-in-the-air.

And I don't know about the others, but I was a bit put off by the owner/chef walking past our table to go outside for a smoke every twenty minutes or so. He should have gone out the back door where we would never have been the wiser. Although I am not a fan of cigarettes I'll I defend your right to smoke them, just don't walk back and forth reeking of them, tainting my sense of smell with their acrid odor.  I'm sorry it just seemed tacky somehow, and considering the couple wanted to present the restaurant as "higher end" it just seemed in bad taste...pardon the pun!

So I went to the local fabric store and bought red and white checkered material and made the overlapping tablecloths and napkins. I found a few suitable wine bottles and spent an hour dripping candle wax down the necks by hand; in this age of dripless candles I had to fake the bistro look! It was "Little" Italy with crusty bread, grapes, Chianti a broad spectrum of opera and classical music (be still my heart, Pavarotti), a whole lot of Parmesan and a menu fit for any homesick Italian.

We ate by candlelight and my lasagne was supreme, at least I thought so and I think the evening was a success. I love cooking and have pulled off Italian dinner parties before. There was this one party  with ten friends crowded around our table and one guest watched with amazement as I delivered the many serving dishes heaped with Bruschetta, Cannelloni, Spaghetti Alla Cabonara,  All' Amatriciana, Lasagna, and Fettuccini Alfredo.  As I removed my apron and seated myself he asked, "My goodness that's a lot of good looking food, do you have Italian heritage?" to which I replied, "No.....an Italian cookbook."

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The Cremation of Sam McGee

1/27/2013

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It’s Sunday, my day off and I usually don’t blog but it’s too cold to go outside and writing keeps me out of the refrigerator.

First I would just like to say, "Enough already with the cold!" This morning was slightly better, a balmy -10 and I should be grateful it's warming up but come on! And, what's up, or should I say, down with -17 wind-chill?

Wind-chill is like Canadian tax and airline tickets. You get teased with a base price and then they pile the taxes on. Please...just show the total 'everything' instead of sugar coating it with the lower figure. The weather channel shows you a temperature of -10 and when you go outside you're hit square in the face with -17. The hairs in your nose freeze and break off! We haven't had this kind of consistent cold for years. Where in heck is global warming? I see next week brings some reprieve but man, like Sam McGee, I'm chilled to the bone!

When I was in grade four we were asked to memorize a poem and one by one we got up and recited our choice to the class. Most got up and did a four to eight line stanza so when I stood to narrate “The Cremation of Sam McGee” it was met with a gasp from the teacher. I didn’t do it to show off, have the longest piece or for any other reason other than pure love for the poem. I stumbled over a few lines but all in all, got it out fairly effectively. Some kids were grossed out by the cremation part but that was the appeal for me. I was a morbid little kid, obsessed with death and dead bodies, wanting to grow up to be a mortician or a pathologist (a story for another time) as early as grade two. Anyway, I heard the poem the year before and it resonated with me, sticking in my crop half memorized until the need for the assignment made me take it all the way. Pretty industrious for a wee mite of a girl but for some reason, the words stuck in my head and to this day I can relay the entire poem...sometimes I quietly recite it in lue of counting sheep on those nights when sleep eludes me.

Robert W. Service wrote a lot of poems about the Gold Rush that happened in Alaska and northwestern Canada at the turn of the 19th century. "The Cremation of Sam McGee," however, is probably the most famous of all. It was published in 1907 and was based on the places he saw, the people he met, and the stories he heard while he lived there. Since its publication, the poem has been popular with generations of readers, who love its combination of black humor, adventure, and captivating descriptions of the lives of Yukon prospectors. For those of you who have never read his wonderful poem google and enjoy it! Johnny Cash does a great job reciting it on YouTube.

Back to my hooking and the warmth of the woodstove, my own little crematorium of sorts, that has an insatiable appetite for hardwood which I've been feeding like a bulimic at an all you can eat buffet. It warms my entire house, upstairs and down and is my savior on these bitter days and nights. Now, if only I didn’t need to go out for provisions, doggy business and work, I’d hold up here till spring!

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One person's scrap is another person's rose!

12/8/2012

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I was fiddling around with wool salvages the other evening while Mary sewed sparkling beads on her Christmas stocking. Being a bit of a crow, I got hooked on beads while experimenting with scissor bling. I started making and selling jewellery in the shop. I was fairly successful but it took time away from rug hooking. I was buying more beads than I could keep up with and the pressure to make jewellery began to overwhelm me. Once that happened it became a chore and the interest waned. I still enjoy dabbling with bling but at a leisurely pace. Some of the beads I purchased are extraordinary. Most of them are one of a kind and made by the artist who sold them to me....SRA, Self Representing Artists. I bought beads from all over the world and my favorites, the ones from Germany, are exquisite.

So I packed up all the equipment, beads and findings and put it away for future inspiration. Although I like to think of myself as Super Woman, I can't serve more than one master at a time and be efficient in all. My cape got a little worn for wear as there was too much crafting and not enough time for living. I went a little crazy and now have thousands of dollars worth of handmade beads lining closet shelves and stuffed into boxes waiting for their chance to shine! Poor little beads, I loved you so, but had to let you go! Another time, maybe even another life, as hooking has to be my main squeeze for now!

Charlene showed me how to make these darling little roses out of the salvage edges of wool. You just start with a tight jelly roll for the center and then as you go around and around, every now and then turn the wool strip upside down to create the rolled over edge for the petals. No two will look alike and they really do represent a rose. You sew the back as you go, then apply the leaves, cover the back with a piece of wool and sew or glue on a brooch pin bought in any craft shop.

I left the finished roses on the sales counter and several people commented how cute they were so I gave them away. They would make a cute little gift or put them on a present in place of a bow and if you put two or more together as a cluster, they make a larger brooch!

If anyone is interested in a doing a little 1/2 hour workshop to make a few of these, let me now and I'll arrange it.

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Main Street Hooker's Christmas Party

12/6/2012

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Mary's Cheese Crispies with Pepper Jelly! Recipe below. Had the leftovers for breakfast this morning!

Yum, Pam's Microwave Fudge. Recipe below. I don't know how we managed to stuff in all the food and snacks! What troopers!

Having a few snacks and zippy drinks. Code for wine spritzers. Good ole Lunenburg County, everyone hangs out in the kitchen.

Sue giving me the evil eye...what did I do now?

Charlene opening her prezzie. Pam looks on while Sue gives herself a foot rub. Charlene made Mac & Cheese but I didn't take a picture. Recipe to follow.

Heather opening her goody bag.

Looks like Charlene's telling a big fish story.

Doesn't Shelley have the most magnificent aura? Lots of prezzies on the table waiting to play the game!

Bonnie stole my scarf! She's a scarfer! She grabbed it off my neck so quickly I had ligature marks!

Armenia opening a beautiful Christmas ornament. My gift was a basket of homemade jams and edibles...thanks Armenia!

Lorraine modeling the stick on breast lifts in one of the presents. I said I wouldn't post this picture but you really can't tell she's braless so what the heck! Ooops...guess I shouldn't write that

Glenna leaving with her delicious homemade tomato soup. Forgot to ask for the leftovers! What was I thinking? Recipe below. This is the only shot of the main courses....forgot to take pictures before we dined!

First to draw, Ginny likes her red wool and so does Sue who later takes it on her turn! Armenia, Pam and Charlene like it too!

Heather opening the last of the gifts. Mary holding Jake and I'm looking at some lovely dyed roving.

Bonnie and another scarf that she scarfed off Heather.

Fiz says, "You crazy bunch of two legged party animals....enough already with the presents, I need my beauty sleep!"

Wednesday evening was our annual potluck Christmas party hosted by yours truly. I have a great group of women who meet and hook the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of each month at my studio tagged ‘The Main Street Hookers’. We get together, eat, drink and be merry and then play a delightful game, can’t remember the name, but everyone draws a number and #1 goes first and chooses a present and then #2 has the option to take #1’s gift or a new one from the table and so on. When it is your turn you can take any previously chosen gift so stuff went back and forth with a great deal of side splitting laughter. The wool presents were a big hit…dah! On my turn I opened a handmade scarf that was quickly ripped off my neck by my sister a few numbers down the line….she scarfed the scarf! I ended grabbing a basket full of edibles, some jams, cranberry sauce and a jelly. Considering I have a shop full of wool at my disposal, it seemed kind to let the other wool piranhas fight over it.

Guess my tummy overruled my brain because I forgot to take pictures of the potluck foods.! We had Mac & Cheese, Smoked Salmon Pasta, various green salads, potato salad, cabbage rolls, seafood casserole, broccoli salad, homemade cream of tomato soup, cucumber salad (a Lunenburg County tradition), a wonderful tomato and olive bruschetta and to top it all off a homemade English Trifle and the Recipe To Riches winner ‘Triple Nut Toffee’, a dessert you’d request for your last meal on death row! I saw the TV show and wanted to taste it and this was the perfect time to do a review. All thumbs were up!

For appetizers we snacked on veggies and dip, chips, grapes, a cheese crisp with pepper jelly, chocolate covered popcorn, Pam’s microwave fudge (one should always eat a bit of dessert first just in case you have no room after the meal), Boursin Garlic & Fine Herbs cheese with various crackers, and sipped wine, wine spritzers, beer and whatever your heart desired. I will post various recipes in the coming days.

Hard to believe another year is almost over. It’s been an exciting time for us as a group. We’ve tucked our first gallery show under our belts and completed a number of wonderful rugs, which I plan to feature one at a time on the blog. Here's hoping 2013 is just as exciting as 2012.!

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Father Christmas Festival Week #1

11/28/2012

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This past weekend marked the first week of the Mahone Bay Father Christmas Festival. The town was abuzz with all things festive, with street musicians, Father Christmases, thousands of sparkling lights and decorated store fronts and windows.   A horse drawn wagon clip clopped up and down the main street filled with passengers huddled together from
the cold, experiencing a mode of travel long forgotten…what a delightful touch. People love a
festival! You can check out the Mahone Bay website link listed before for activities and events.

Our shop had a special visit from St. Nick and his wife or maybe she was his mistress elf…gee I wouldn’t want to start a rumour about the old guy. The festive couple were regaled in seasonal costumes made by Vicki Bardon of Suttles & Seawinds.   Our St. Nick was played, very realistically, by our very own Dr. Abriel, and yes, that’s his real beard folks!  The lovely lady accompanying  him is his wife Heather.   I’ll bet they had fun visiting the shops and stopping to chat with people passing by. (Sorry, I just have to say, "gosh the shop looks great in this picture!")

It was cold last weekend and windy. The gloves are on people, winters here! Considering the temperatures earlier in the week it was a bit of a disappointment, but then again cold weather goes against my grain. I was meant for warmer climates but I suppose if I live long enough global warming will accommodate me. My Father Christmas, that may or may not be a depiction of King Neptune, had to be brought inside as the wind toppled him twice. I think the poor guy broke his neck as it’s hanging at a weird angle.

The shop wasn’t as busy as other years but frankly I feel it’s just too early. In November we are still hanging on to fall, not wanting to think about winter and snow and changing tires and the long, cold haul ahead. December, on the other hand, is synonymous with Christmas and we all want to see a bit of the white stuff so being it on! Once the 12th month rolls around, I think people swing into festive action and get serious about shopping, make fruit cake and shortbreads, drag out the ornaments, erect a tree, and buy the Christmas Crackers.   That's my plan anyway.

Hope to see you out and about this coming weekend. Drop by the shop for a bit of Christmas cheer!   Don't forget, our coupon is still in effect until December 2nd when the Festival ends.
Give like Santa, save like Scrooge!

http://www.mahonebay.com/festivals-events/father-christmas-festival.html

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Going For The Cure!

11/25/2012

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Hooking should come with a warning label. It’s infectious and there isn't really a cure, so it keeps coming back, over and over until it fills our houses with rugs.   Some may be bitten with a mild case and have only a few rugs on their floors and walls, but others are bitten severely and have filled their houses, to such a degree that excess pieces are forced into trunks and closets, hidden away as not to shock the observer with the degree of our sickness.  Fortunately, this disease is not life threatening but the symptoms can vary in intensity. Once you feel the desire to hook the next project, get to your nearest rug hooking store for the cure.

The first sign that you’ve been infected is the presence of random thoughts. Your mind skips all over the place until it settles on a project, making you dizzy in the process. Some find relief by purchasing a ready-made pattern while others prefer self-dosing and sketch their own design. Getting this out of your system as quickly as possible is a must, because you can experience feelings of 'bursting at the seams' which means it’s now too late, you’ve reached second stage.

Luckily this stage doesn’t last long and as soon as your idea is laid to paper there will be a sense of release before a new symptom wells up to take its place. For this, call a rug shop and take one to two yards of burlap or linen, this should bring some relief. Once that is out of the way and your pattern is on the backing, along comes stage three, the overwhelming desire to hunt down and secure the wool.   This can be the most feverish stage and be warned, there could drool. Your eyesight may falter as you stare half delirious at yard upon yard of wool, while your brain plays tricks of indecision. Your feverish mind screams silently, "Why can't I have it all?"

Forth stage is the actual hooking, the longest stage before the inevitably end.   Try not to get distracted so you can get through it quickly. Don’t let it lie around and fester, prolonged delays can lead to anxiousness and subject you to comments from annoying, over achiever, “I can hook a rug in two weeks”, hookers. Remember, all stages are highly contagious and meeting in groups will spread it rapidly. Unfortunately, being exposed does not build immunities and you will experience the same symptoms for every project you do.

Side effects might vary from hooker to hooker:

1. Anal retentiveness, far better than anal leakage but just as annoying.

  2. If you think your floor stand will be erect for more than four hours, immediately call your friends and make an evening of it.

3. Erratic behavior in rug shops; the impulse to fondle, caress and spend money for wool that you hide from your husband in the trunk of your car.

4. Hyperventilating from the sight of a piece of wool that someone found on the store shelf or Frenchies, seconds before you arrived and won't part with it.

5. Insomnia may occur; hooked in bed and the wool dust keeps you sneezing and itching.

6. Stiffness in joints from prolonged sitting in one position.

7. Skin Irritations; gripper rash.

8. Drowsiness at work the following day from hooking past midnight the night before.

9. Irritability; that housework and family get in the way of completing your rug.

10. Taking on higher doses of projects than you can handle.

11. Dry mouth may occur; take 1 to 2 glasses of wine, rum or scotch.

12. Lack of sexual drive; lust is only for ruggy not huggy!

13. Experiencing highs and lows….in loop height.

14. Confusion; can’t decide what colour looks best in a particular area, ripping it out, trying something else and then ripping that out and putting the first choice back in.

15. Increased hyperactivity, hooking fast to Git-R-Done!

16. Excessive sweating; already hormonally challenged with debilitating hot flashes, don't you think a wool rug on your lap in 30 degrees Celsius temperatures, with 100% humidity could be a cause not a symptom?

17. Decreased interest in work, outside activities, family and non rug hooking friends.

18. Addictive behaviors, such as wool hoarding.

19. Lapse in judgement; you want to buy wool and consider a bolt....to the car that is, with a stash tucked under your arm while screaming at hubby, "Start the car! Start the car!"

20. Incontinence; Too busy hooking to get up and go to the bathroom after all that wine. A box of Depends? - Priceless!

Warning:

Do not operate heavy machinery or drive while rug hooking!

Depression - Can occur if you sit furniture on your rug for long periods, but don’t worry the loops should spring back once the object is removed.

A Support Group is held at 7:00 pm, the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of every month at Encompassing Designs Rug Hooking Studio. All hookers are welcome. Help for all stages is available. You are not alone!

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