PSA

A few public service announcements today:

First up, while jogging merrily along on the old treadmill to You! Me! Dancing! (impossible to listen to and not want to do something really, really fast) I spotted Martha on the telly making something involving an Evian bottle filled with liquid plaster of Paris, an air pump and a balloon. It all ended very badly in that way Martha's crafts sometimes do the first time out, but anyway I do love that woman. Her little crafty Halloween kits, which are cuter than they are scary, are now 50% at Michaels. I've never seen her things on sale before so I was maybe buying with a little too much enthusiasm.

Next stop, the Macgregor sock outlet on The East Mall & Queensway. I go for the $3.99 Calvin Klein and Michael Kors merino wool socks for me and thick wooly numbers that will be turned into presents for some little friends. The bright blue ones are earmarked for a little bird to perch on this branch beside the tweedy leaves, which are part of a larger tree project I'm working on for the new studio:

feeling kind of sunday

Feeling kind of crafty. A super quick (15 minutes) t-shirt makeover using a scrap of thrifted fabric and an old Martha template for the giraffe.



Feeling kind of sporty. An afternoon hike at Rattlesnake Point. A park I'd visit for the name alone, but the trails - and views - do not disappoint.



Feeling kind of Halloween. Decorate without buying more plastic junk.

Not yet having a sense of time, themed holidays are Stella's sundial: "First comes Halloween, then comes Christmas then comes my birthday, right?" Every holiday is a thing of joy to a four-year old. A feast of decorations, songs with hand gestures (turkeys turkeys all around. turkeys up. turkeys down. turkeys on the ground), crafting and, if you're lucky, chocolate. They're all pretty great, but an extra helping of enthusiasm is reserved for Halloween. We've been talking about it for two months and now that the first signs of lawn decor are springing up around the block, it is the only subject at dinner. "Can I be a pirate this year Mom? But a sea pirate, OK? Can you make a sea pirate costume? Or could I be a ghost with a pumpkin head? But next year I want to be a bamfire (trans: vampire). I want to be everything that's scary in the world."

So you'll understand why, with sincere apologies for the inconvenience, anyone looking for Halloween books at the Eatonville public library will find them at my house. I just could not say no to the little girl - how could I force her to choose between The Craziest Halloween and Attack of the Fifty Foot Teacher - so we kind of took them all. This one, The Littlest Witch, is my favourite. The beautiful illustrations aside, how could you not be hooked with this opener:

"It was Hallowe'en - whispery, shadowy, ghostly - and twenty-four witches sat around a magic circle in the exact centre of a deep forest. They stirred restlessly on their toadstools and mumbled angrily among themselves. It was almost midnight - time for their frolic - and one witch had not yet come."





I have a monthly budget for library late fees, but I promise to return this one on time.

getting with the program

Well hello there. Has it really been a week? I am in danger of having my blogger status revoked if I don't pick up the posting pace around here. I have the same relationship with blogging as I do with my gym: when I'm in a groove it's just part of my day. Mess with the routine and it's the equivalent of finding your treadmill buried underneath a pile of week old laundry. Somehow I fell off the blogging wagon; I'm trying to get back on, because I really do enjoy it. And I hope one day my kids will enjoy this chronicle of our lives. There's some weird Blogger bug that is preventing me from uploading images, so I apologize for the text-y post. And I had such a cute pile of vintage gift wrap scored for 25 cents at Thrift Villa to show you.

Now lest you think I have been, heaven forbid, relaxing these last seven days, I assure you I have not. Nor have I been going to the gym for that matter, until today that is when I had three workouts in three hours. With quivering legs and heavy forearms, let me explain. As a roving reviewer for TO Life magazine I'm called up to sample, test, review, inspect and ultimately comment upon anything from chocolate shops (I really can't believe I got paid to do that) to florists, spas, caterers, shoe stores and, yep, gyms. It's a good gig. So today I reviewed a handful of gyms which, frankly, is sort of like a bald man reviewing hair dryers. I'm fit. I'm healthy. I am no longer, however, in good shape. I've really struggled to get back into pre-pregnancy shape and it is just not happening for me. A fondness for Nonna's pasta doesn't help. Neither does Saturday morning breafast at the local greasy spoon. But I do workout because though I've given up on my abs ever springing back, I am crazy determined to keep my heart healthy. After a visit here I realize I do little more than catch up on back issues of US Weekly during my usual 30 minute stint on the treadmill. David, the owner of Aiyoku, a warm, sincere and genuinely nice guy, put me through the paces on this machine, which is the one Madonna apparently travels with (I'd like to see that suitcase) and then this one, which I loved. Aiyoku is a revelation. It's more spa than gym, and I've said it before, I like things pretty. Bergamot-scented chilled towel service? 26" flat screen TVs at every treadmill? Not a mirror in sight? I am so there people, I am so there.

I've always thought the person whose job it is to name paint colours has a pretty cool gig. I imagine that by the 80th rendition of medium brown things could get tiresome, so I'm suggesting "pinecone". If any paint-namers are out there.

A new batch of handknit (in Toronto!) earflap hats just arrived this morning, all beautifully fuzzy, Italian wool of the non-itchy variety and all crayon box colours, but for Mr. Pinecone here, which is my personal favourite. I should have the hats added to the shop in a day or two.

on the farm

A thanksgiving trip to the pumpkin patch is becoming a family tradition we look forward to. But where last year's excursion was dry, dusty and bright, this year was misty, damp and grey. I liked it. Hot cider. Rain boots. A tractor ride. A dewy walk in the pumpkin patch. My sister is more romantic than me, so I felt bad that her vision of cousin babies happily bumping along in the wagon was dashed before we even left the parking lot, but the wagon was put to another good use, and little M got to wear this bonnet (fashioned from a table cloth):





We were running a bit late - as usual - but we still took a leisurely cruise up highway 27 instead of the quicker but definitely unscenic 400. I love farm country. We have a half-baked idea of a weekend place with horses, a hen house, some veggies. One day. There was a very good article in The Post a few weeks ago, it talked about the coming shortage of farmers and the economic and cultural reasons why so few second generation farmers stay on the land. A bit doomy and gloomy - as a farmer's kid, I can't fathom the disappearance of agriculture from Ontario - but there were some bright spots in the story too: a 30-something woman raising organic turkeys, murmurings of a farming collective. This story about a 100 mile market in Meaford raised my spirits (though my mind wandered after learning Robin Leach's brother apparently lives in Meaford). Our farmer's market is closing for the season in a few weeks. I'm really going to miss it. It's harder than I'd imagined buying local, even at the peak of growing season. Our local Loblaws, which has the big lobster tank, the natural foods section, the $6 loaves of fougasse, rarely offers Ontario produce. South American apples in September. California tomatoes in August. I'm sure there are some very good, very complicated, very justifiable reasons why this is the case, but I prefer to blame dollar stores. They've changed our perception of value - $4 lattes notwithstanding. I'm a tad worried that I've become intolerable since reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, but it does make for spirited discussions on country drives.

the great diaper experiment

It's Thanksgiving morning and I'm thankful that my kids are watching TV so I can catch up on my favourite blogs and drink two three cups of hot coffee.

There isn't an immediate connection between cross-stitch and diapers, but there was something in Nan's post, something about stumbling across an earlier version of your parenting self and finding that person maybe not silly exactly, but certainly different and less confident and less you, that made me nod in recognition. And it somehow explains why after four years of disposable I decided to give cloth diapers a whirl. With both kids I wanted to use cloth, but when Stella was born in 2003 I couldn't find any information or a reliable supplier, and with Henry I was more committed, did the research, but in the end they seemed bulky and troublesome and stinkier - especially when doing 12 changes a day with an infant - and I didn't pull the trigger. Until last week. $60 later I had two pairs: Motherease and a new-fangled Bummis. I was, truthfully, afraid to use them. Worried that Henry would poop in his $29.95 organic cotton nappy (it seemed so wrong) it took me two days to work up the nerve to try them.

The Bummis (the green one) is cute, easy to use and fit well. Henry didn't notice anything different - a concern because cloth is substantially more bulky than disposable. My timing was off: Henry pooped within the hour. Clean up was, as you'd expect, way more involved than a disposable and, for me, that's the main drawback.

The Motherease diaper is gorgeous and plush and works with a separate waterproof cover. It's also very bulky and Henry spent a good 10 minutes trying to rip it off. Cloth diapers are not as forgiving as disposable when you lose track of time: H spent about 3 hours in the Motherease and it was thoroughly soaked front to back, like a sodden towel, when I woke him from his nap. It leaked a bit but not as much as I'd expected.

I'm not sure what this experiment is really about, other than to satisfy my own curiosity. No two ways about it: cloth diapers are more work. They're not a convenience item. I wouldn't want to use them while traveling or out for the day. But still there's something deeply appealing about them. I think I may use them and disposables, the way my mother did: cloth at home, disposable when the situation calls for it. The experiment continues...

weekend-ing

However you congregate, happy Thanksgiving!

if you give a mouse a cookie...

Whenever one of our holdout non-parent friends dares to ask what it's "really like" I refer them to the story about the mouse. I don't know about your house, but it's a good analogy for mine. Take, for instance, last night:

Three Hours To Do The Dishes: A Screwball Domestic Comedy In Eight Acts

Act One, Scene One: The Dinner Hour. Happy family eating dinner.
Baby bouncing on Grandma's lap. Amiable chit-chat. Background: dishes.

Act Two, Scene One: The clean-up
Grandma takes baby to bath. 4-year old wanders off to play. Husband & Wife do dishes together. Amiable chit-chat.

Scene Two: Wife cuts finger on chef's knife carelessly placed in dish rack, heads to bathroom for bandage. Husband, seeing an opportunity, abandons dishes/kitchen and wanders off. Does not return until Act Three.

Act Three, Scene One: The Bathroom.
Baby spies Wife/Mother, starts to cry. Finger bandaged, Wife/Mother retrieves baby from bath. Husband appears in doorway holding drill and a jigsaw attachment. Asks wife "do you know how this works?" Wife's expression says it all. Husband wanders off. Does not return until Act Four.

Scene Two: The Nursery.
Wife/Mother enters nursery holding naked baby, turns on light. Look of horror: orange drips cover walls from ceiling to floor. Scream of horror startles baby (who begins to cry) as Wife/Mother realizes Vicks Vap-O Rub really should not be used in the vaporizer, and vaporizer should not be left running for 12 hours with the door closed. Dishes abandoned. Naked baby abandoned. Bucket of water and sponge procured.

Scene Three: The Nursery.
Grandmother and Wife/Mother on stepladders washing walls. Naked baby playing on floor. Husband/Father no where to be seen. 4-year old watching Survivor. Wife/Mother smells something foul. Looks down: naked baby has pooped on carpet. Wife/Mother's scream startles baby, who begins to cry, steps in pooh and falls down. Dishes abandoned. Walls abandoned. Carpet taken to laundry room.

Scene Four: The Bathroom.
Wife/Mother re-bathes baby.

Act Four: The Stud Finder
Husband, now shirtless, asks Wife/Mother where she put the stud finder. Wife/Mother knows she put it somewhere and for the next five minutes shouts out possible locations. Husband reappears, frustrated. Dishes abandoned. Walls abandoned. Baby abandoned. 4-year old still watching survivor. Wife leaves to look for the stud finder.

Scene Two: Husband, muttering, trails Wife on a fruitless expedition to locate stud finder. Husband leaves house.

Act Five: Bedtime
Grandma puts baby to bed. Wife resumes dish washing. Five minutes later, Survivor over, 4-year old goes to shower and needs help. Dishes abandoned.

Scene Two: 4-year old takes 20-minute long shower, draining last of hot water so dish washing cannot resume until water tank has reheated.

Scene Three: Mother cleans other parts of kitchen while waiting for hot water. Husband returns and begins drilling wall in living room. Baby is sleeping.

Act Six:
4-year old decides to have sleep over at Grandma's - tomorrow is a PD Day. Wife/Mother drives Grandma and 4-year old across town.

Act Seven:
9:45 p.m. Wife/Mother returns home. Husband/Father, shirtless again, still drilling. Baby, unbelievably, still sleeping. Dish washing resumes.

Act Eight:
Kitchen cleaned, Wife/Mother retires to dining room to work on computer, sitting down for the first time in four hours. Husband's drilling replaced by hammering. The thing Husband is mounting on the wall falls off in slow motion, landing painfully on his foot. He turns to Wife and says "I really could have used your help there."

THE END

I fell in love with this little painting at a flea market the other day. I asked the vendor how much for the cow; he furrowed his brow took a moment and said "oh you mean the deer." I guess the woodland background should have been a clue, but all I know is I hung it in Stella's room and she said "I like the cow picture mom."

My baby and me are in synch lately. I could chalk it up to whatever mystical force guides children's emotions, but I'd like to think it's my skillful parenting that's brought some welcome harmony after a long stretch of tantrums and saucy behaviour. Credit where it's due, this book has totally reshaped my approach. I've read a bunch of parenting books recently; 1-2-3 Magic was suggested by our Doctor. It was a disaster. It infuriated Stella and really only amplified a situation that was already out of control. And because everything was done in the heat of the moment I found myself dishing out bizarre consequences that had no connection to the issue at hand, and often punished us more than her. Won't eat your dinner? Fine, you can't play outside tonight. Waaahh! And now we're suddenly - loudly - focused on not playing outside versus the real issue in the first place, table manners, and everyone's meal is spoiled. Some time in the summer a neighbour dropped off a big box of toys her kids had outgrown. Manna. It was full of cool books, a microscope, a Schroeder-esque piano and a big old fashioned red gumball machine. It was empty so I really cannot explain the appeal but the gumball machine became Stella's most prized treasure. The night it was taken away in a fit of tears, the look of betrayal on Stella's face convinced me this was not the approach for us.

I think why Sarah Chana Radcliffe's approach is successful, for us anyhow, is because it emphasizes positive reinforcement. The parent doesn't get to "win" every situation. It's more forgiving of letting smaller infractions go by in favour of the bigger picture. There is more trust and more logical connections between behaviour and consequence that Stella seems to understand better. I think I'm starting to understand the reaction of parents who've been here before when they say "You think a baby is hard? Just wait." This shift from quantitative parenting to qualitative is tricky business.

a big bite

I like to take pictures of my kids when they're not looking.



This is why.

Now I'm not complaining about the weather, believe you me, but I must say a fall is really just an excuse to wear a cozy new sweater. It's not the same in flip flops and a tank. But my slow life pledge has been thrown by the wayside recently (hence the spotty posting) so it's real good to get away from the house for a couple of hours and just unplug. What's keeping me hopping you ask? Freelancing is always feast or famine so I tend to say yes to everything, not expecting that it's going to be the writing equivalent of an Italian wedding. Thinking a little *me* time would be good I signed up a few weeks ago for a Wednesday night sewing class, which has turned into a real-life Project Runway with a very capable but exacting instructor. My simple tweed skirt has morphed into a couture garment that's cost nearly $100 to date. But the thing that's keeping me real busy, keeping me awake at night and quite possibly giving me an ulcer, is that I've signed a lease for a studio space. It's a big move for me, for my family, for Honeybunch. I've toyed with and always pooh-poohed the idea of a physical shop over the years but, as I've said before, I believe in fate. It all came together very quickly, very easily and the whole arrangement seems perfect: I can walk there, so it'll be very neighbourhood-y and my kids can hang out with me on the weekend, it's bright and sunny, I can afford the rent (a major issue in Toronto) and the landlord is a gentleman (another major issue, typically). I should be open just before Christmas, and you're all invited to the big party!

corners of my home

It's taken some doing, but at last, a tidy corner.

I'd given up on striking gold at Value Village and coming home with a mid-century teak credenza for $50, so chancing upon this sofa table in Ikea's As-Is department felt like fate. Of course getting it home assembled was no easy task, but thanks to a trio of good samaritans in the parking lot who helped me untangle car seat straps and stuff the thing in, we're home and now a lot of odds and ends have a place to be.

On another note, a family around the corner who, with four kids, always has the best yard sales, told me about this mondo garage sale. It's tomorrow. It's really big and I assume crowded. But by all accounts, worth it. See you there. Happy weekend everyone.

a bargain at twice the price

I was very happy to make the acquaintance of Flora, a crafty gal down the road who is a whiz with the crochet hook. While lots of folks can knit and crochet with competence - those scratchy acrylic but beautifully turned-out hats and dolls at church bazaars make me weep - it's the crafters who also have an eye for colour and an attention to detail that stop me in my tracks. These are Flora's hair clips. She asked if I would be interested in selling them in my shop. Normally I don't do hair accessories; they're not really the sort of thing people buy online and it's hard to convey in a photograph how lovely and thoughtfully made these are. But I couldn't say no because these are just too good to not share. Flora has sent over a smattering of samples. She crochets each little flower then attaches it to a ribbon-covered alligator clip, that also has a magnetic strip inside so it'll hold the finest baby hair. They are $6.75 a set, which, considering the level of detail, means Flora is not paying herself nearly enough. So get in on a good thing while you can!

If you're interested in a set of clips for your gal, drop me a line: nicole(at)honey-bunch.com

get me alice, stat

A bit of a mixed nuts kind of weekend around here. A bit of this, a bit of that. All perfectly unscheduled, which was fine by me. A peaceful, grown-ups only morning of scavenging turned up this sweet MelMac set, which is just what I wanted for an upcoming tea and crafting afternoon. Porcelain cups seemed too fussy for what I have in mind.



In between the furniture painting, garage reorg and mowing half the lawn, we also managed to squeeze in some much needed home maintenance. A door that was threatening to fall off its hinge for years finally did just that, and we could no longer ignore the problem. Bolstered by success we tackled a burned out lightbulb at the top of the landing. Months of navigating a twisty staircase in the dark has given us all some kind of weird spidey sense; I can manage it while carrying a tub of laundry and cradling the phone. But when a five-year old visitor asks "how come you haven't fixed the lightbulb yet?" willful blindness starts to feel like sloth.

In between the this and the that we had drop-in guests. Normally the idea of people arriving on my doorstep without at least an hour or two's notice would freak me out. I need time to stuff things into closets (or in a pinch the oven), whip the shower curtain closed and slap on some make-up. Like most, our house is never really in drop-in condition. But this weekend the house was particularly, well, I'll just say it, dirty. As in dishes in the sink, a bathroom that were it public I would not use, folded laundry covering the coffee table, a hoosier in the hallway blocking the closet door so everything that should be hidden away is now strewn about the floor, and, good god, a poopy diaper fermenting on the porch. It was not good. I was paint-splattered, pony-tailed and quite possibly not even showered when our visitors dropped in at 5:00, stayed for dinner (take-out), coffee and frozen apple crumble.

Sure it was a little embarrassing. But I was enjoying the conversation and counting on four kids tearing up the house to provide some camoflage. I thought I was getting away with it when my mother-in-law, who also happened to come by, cast an eye across the chaos and said "If you make some money this year maybe you can hire a housekeeper." A comment trumped by own mother who observed "You're always getting organized but you never get organized." They are both right. I need a housekeeper. I need an Alice to my Mrs. Brady. Do you know who Sisyphus is? I'd never heard of him until we let go the cleaning lady last year. Getting this house in order has been simultaneously uphill and downhill ever since.

Despite how it sounds, it was a splendid weekend. It was kind of freeing to have people see us at our worst and still want to stay, frozen apple crumble and all.

relax

I've fielded a couple of emails from folks a bit panicked about the painted portrait deadline. Do not fret, please. Take your time and find a photo you truly love. I am happy to extend the offer for another week.

i've got to be me

It is Friday and it is oh so warm and sunny, so I know I am not the only one who wants to yell doodlydoodlydoo at the top of her lungs, swing round a lamp post, kick off her shoes and sit on the porch with a frosty glass of something or other. I am extra enthusiastic today because it has been a long week filled with meetings of one kind or another. A week of too many spreadsheets and a dusty calculator. A week that was far too dull and yet incredibly exciting at the same time. But more on that another time. Today I am happy to just get my hands dirty again. The plague of wasps that kept me from painting any furniture for the past six weeks seems to be over, and so today the driveway is filled with 3 dressers, 1 cabinet, and several chairs all getting a lick of paint and a new lease on life. Cleaning, scraping, sanding, priming and painting a tatty old bureau might not be everyone's idea of a good time, but I love a makeover. I've decided to not take on any more custom orders for furniture. Painting all of my stuff white started to feel more like production - especially when I had to cover an amazing turquoise or candy pink I'd already done - and I really missed the fun of picking a shade that seemed to really suit the piece. It may sound silly but I take a lot of time deciding on colours. I like to get it right. So today I've decided on rain slicker yellow for the chairs, robin's egg blue for one dresser, lavender for another and a watermelon pink night table. I may be alone in my opinion, but I think the world needs less white and a little more oompah-pah.

Happy weekend friends

Letter of the Day: H

"The value of an idea has nothing whatever to do with the sincerity of the man who expresses it." - Oscar Wilde

Oh that Mr. Wilde. He always has my number. Barely two days after my plasticky junk rant, look what moved into the house:



A rare Sunday morning garage sale. In my defense, I had nothing to do with this purchase. It was made while I was happily forking over three bucks for this:



And in that short interlude with my back turned, Mr. Honeybunch bought a talking purple vaccuum cleaner. Oh yes, the saucy so-and-so does have quite a bit to say about the state of the house. I might not object if thing actually had a bit of suction, but, no, all it does is judge: "we must clean up this dust!" "let's clean up this mess!" and my favourite, "This place is a pig sty!"

Some battles are uphill all the way. A bit of fortification, however, in the form of this article in the weekend Globe. A *slow* clothes movement. Yes! Yes to quality. Yes to integrity. Yes to buying less but enjoying it more. The purple vacuum? I may be an idealist but I'm no fool: It'll probably outlive us all. I may very well hand it down to Stella's kids as a prized family heirloom. I'm not saying no to plastic. I'm saying no to this:

weekend-ing

The divided plate was gone when I returned to GoodWill, but finding this fellow for $5 made my day. The shade could use some pompoms, don't you think? Mr. Dumpty will live in Henry's room, I think. I haven't lavished nearly as much attention on the little Mister's room, so it's due for some thrifty goodness.

You can't see me, of course, but here I am, on the porch, barefoot as has been the case since mid-April, soaking up the last of summer. I am getting misty. And contemplating a run to the McGregor sock outlet down the road. It seems I may need a pair this weekend. 15-degrees tomorrow? Oh the cruel, cruel jet stream.

On the family sked this weekend:
1. Marineland. I promised.
2. Queen West Art Crawl. Where we bought this last year, and kind of hoped to buy another Steven Nederveen painting, but discovered we can no longer afford his work. Which I suppose is good, investment-wise, but a bummer for our still barren bedroom.

Happy weekend!

good timing

At the nursery school's annual picnic last week Stella won, handily I might add, the sack race, foot race and tied for first in a photo finish in the wheelbarrow race. What can I say? The kid is speedy. But I think it was the mountain of prizes waiting to be won that was really behind her Olympic-worthy performance. She cleaned up, and we came home with a large bag full of stuff. The dreaded plasticky stuff that fills under-the-bed bins, lurks behind the couch, litters the car floor and makes the thwacking sound in the dryer as it falls out of one pocket or another. Of course all of it ultimately ends up in the garbage. The leg that falls off the *walking* dinosaur seconds after its unwrapping. The disappointing ball that doesn't really bounce. The thingy that falls off the thingy, rendering it useless. And on and on. I have a personal ban on plasticky junk: I do not buy it for my kids or for anyone else, but it invades my life just the same.

My sister-in-law sent me this snip from a CNN blog yesterday:
Have you had enough of the china-made recall stories? I'm considering going retro for my toddler nephews... and getting the old-fashioned wooden toys. The kind where you go to a small crafting/antiques/knickknacks tourist town and a guy is standing there actually making them for you at his shop. Today I'll interview a “fortune” magazine guest about whether this is going to be a very different christmas."

Amen to that. If there is any good to come from this toy recall mess, let it be a return to toys that A) actually work B) won't hurt you C) use a little imagination. Now we all know there is a vast difference between the stuff a 4-year old thinks is cool and great and the stuff a 38-year old gets giddy over. But as a keen observer of how my kids play, the thing they return to over and over again is a big box of building blocks Stella's had since she was a baby. They've been turned into the tower of Pisa, castles, boats and, lately, a jail for misbehaving farm animals. They don't break, make noise, get boring after 5 minutes, annoy adults or end up in the garbage. They are perfect, and on that the 4 year old and 38 year old agree.

We are also in agreement over these very sweet new toys. They're handknit by a fair trade cooperative. The veggies and tool belt toys are rattles for little hands, and the donuts and cupcakes are a welcome addition to the play food menu.

PS
Thank you Sue for passing on this recall link. The photos that accompany each product are really helpful when trying to figure out if you have any of this stuff in your house.

Warning: Plot Spoiler

Dear Nan,
before you go any further I must warn you that I have posted a couple of photos of the CD that will be on its way to you and your little loveys in just a day or two. Of course, if you're like me and enjoy peeling back a corner of the wrapping paper - just behind the ribbon where no one will ever know what you've done - then by all means come on in and have a little look.






A snip of thrifted pillowcase, a bit of ticking cotton, a pair of vintage buttons, stitch, stitch, stich, some wobbly embroidery, et voila: a CD envelope. Now I am not a pattern follower. I am a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants crafter. But I am also a bit of a perfectionist and if you're thinking that those two qualities do not mix, well you'd be right. At some point in every project I am ready to chuck it all in the trash can recycle bin. So a confession: I botched the first CD envelope, the one pictured here, and I remade it last night a bit tidier: I embroidered before I sewed in the lining so the knot of stitches is hidden. I am not a neat embroiderer. Correction, I am not an embroiderer at all and goodness knows my grandmother would be appalled by my handiwork here, but what I lack in skill I make up in speed, and I quite like the way it looks all the same.

In case you're wondering what all this swapping business is about, I am making a CD for Nan's kids and she is making one for mine. Nan lives in Sydney. We've never met. But I know from our mutual disdain for The Wiggles and her funny and very pretty blog that if we were neighbours we'd be baking lemon squares for the school bake sale together. And probably arm-wrestling over vintage children's books and Japanese tableware at the thrift store.

The swap was organized by Tracy, an ex-pat now living in California, the lucky devil. I do so love the Internet.

doodleedoodleedoo

Standing around the soggy schoolyard this morning waiting for the bell to ring watching this kid, a fellow JK-er, gleefully running through mud puddles, as five year olds do. His smart navy trousers splattered up to his shins; shoes, and surely socks too, sodden. I know what you're wondering: did I stop him? Nosiree, I did not. He was having a good time. But more truthfully, we all slept in this morning and rushed out the door before the coffee finished brewing, and my judgement is simply not to be trusted before the Folgers sinks in. Yes, I felt a bit bad mother-ish about it, albeit in slow motion. But then, my Ebay of the Day arrived and whaddya know - vindication:




It is from this book by Ruth Krauss and illustrated by Maurice Sendak, one of my favourites.



What would you say about eyebrows? Or a hole in the ground? Well, Miss Krauss, way back in 1952, posed these questions to a group of children at the Harriet Johnson Nursery School and this book of kid-defined words is the result.







And the best one:

I am so saddened by the news about Anita Roddick. I worked for The Body Shop during its hey day in the '80s, and was lucky to meet Anita a few times. She was incredibly inspiring. Electrifying, really. But also kind and funny and generous and so very human. Though I kind of outgrew Body Shop products over the years - Christmas still smells like Raspberry Bathing Bubbles and Milk Bath to me - the company's earth-friendly and fair-trade practices resonated deeply, and continue to inform my work/life philosophy. She was years ahead of everyone on everything: the Amazon, sustainable ingredients, reduce/reuse/recycle, human rights. In our little Body Shop smocks, we were enraptured, evangelical. I'm sure customers wandering in for their kiwi lip balm wondered what the hell a bath shop was doing with t-shirts emblazoned with "Get Your Lawn Off Drugs" or coffee table books about the Kayapo indians in Brazil. But Anita had the gift of story telling and making you really, really care. It was, without a doubt, a life very well lived.

meet my hoosier

I fell in love with the hoosier last Sunday. Isn't it a beauty? Despite what you may think, my house isn't especially vintage-y. Stella's room is the exception. The rest is mid-century garage sale with a dash of Ikea. So I really had no idea where the hoosier was going to go but I knew I had to have it and that I would not regret its purchase. While I would love to use it to bake pies and clip recipes and plan girl scout jamborees I needed to find for it a more practical purpose. Happily it turned out to be a lovely new home for my laptop and office-y stuff. Everything fits just so, and aesthetically it's a vast improvement over the sawhorse table I've been using as a desk for 15 years.

The books, by the way, are originals from the Honeybunch series by Helen Louise Thorndyke. In case you've ever wondered, that's where the name of my shop came from. At the time I was mulling over a bunch of different names but nothing stuck until I stumbled across Honeybunch visits the City at a flea market and something about the combination of silly and sweet (who names their kid Honeybunch?) got to me. Turns out her real name was Gertrude Marion Morton, but Mr. Morton declared it unfitting for a girl so possessed of sunshine and renamed her Bunch of Sweetness, later shortened to Honeybunch. I like it.

Looks like another super-wonderful weekend is upon us. I am checking out early to enjoy it and get ready for the inaugural meeting of the park rejuvenation committee, chez moi. Much to talk about next week. Enjoy your weekend friends.

the long good-bye

First day. Stella, a quiet nervousness. But man I could really use a Kleenex - I even lost a contact lens. The teacher, Miss H., is young and bright and sparkly and shooed us out the door before I was ready to say good-bye. My girl, who I can barely lift anymore, looked small again to me, sitting on the classroom floor waiting for whatever was going to happen to happen.

Party, Party, Party

A sunny day, a big shady tree and tie-dying t-shirts in the backyard. I so love this party. There was also an obstacle course involving water balloons and hockey equipment - all big hits with the under-10 crowd. My trend-y senses are tingling: It seems like simpler, more humble celebrations are coming into vogue. There's Katrina Onstad's "party monsters" article in September's Chatelaine, this article sent to me by my sister (Who is also a fan of the home-baked party. It's the only kind we ever knew.), and this article on HGTV's site .

I love good decorations, yummy food and a fairly organized operation: wine for the grown-ups, no blaring kid music, a well-planned activity and a treat for the ride home. No insanely expensive loot bags, but no plasticky junk either. That the wine will be, as Katrina Onstad describes, "half drunk, clouded with wadded clown napkins and a regurgitated cake chunk sunk to the bottom...", is a given. Indeed, that describes most of my beverages, party or not. Call me a sentimental fool, but I love it all.

Thanks for sending in the party pictures Lisa - looks like a good time.

ethics 101 (or how not to get ahead in business)

Funny, I don't remember donating my old logo to Goodwill, but wow, there it is. On someone's store front not 5 kilometres from my house. Now I'm all for recycling and reusing but it seems to me someone has done more than rifle through my trash can here.

This photo isn't the greatest, I did, after all, take it while driving past with my jaw hanging open, so what you can't see is that the sign is a rich, chocolately brown. The same rich, chocolately brown that I drove my printer and designer up the wall to get right. That I spent a entire week searching Pantone colour cards to find. I might sound glib about all of this but seriously I am flabbergasted. Discouraged. And angry. Honeybunch has been a labour of love for sure, but a labour none the less. I've invested four years and countless late nights, long weekends, savings into creating a little business that I'm pretty darned proud of. Sometimes I make money. Sometimes I don't. But it's always fun and rewarding and I do it because it brings me joy. I'm a little deflated today. It'll pass. I believe in karma not lawsuits, which is a rich irony considering my husband is an IP lawyer. I probably should have listened to his urgings to trademark my art. Lesson #987,654 learned people. Lesson learned.