Flibbertygibbet

Forgetting

F is for forgetting.  It's an acknowledged fact that our memories - both our recollections and our physical capabilities - fade as we get older, particularly if they aren't used and challenged.  Last night we were watching Memory Manor and it was amusing to try to play along.  However DH wasn't really concentrating because he was tired, just back from work, which involves flying on a weekly basis.  And then it's all over the news this morning that UK airports are on high alert as there's been an alleged plot to blow up aircraft. 

It's not so much that you forget, but over time the memories get filed somewhere further back in our minds, whether it's 9/11 or the July bombings here - I realise this sounds callous and it's not intentionally so, but it's true. We live in such a self-centric society. Gradually you start to wonder if some of the media coverage of fundamentalism's reach is hyperbole, and I'm not someone who believes everything she reads.  It's fiercely sobering, when it rises up like bile again.

But sitting around worrying about what might happen is destructive, and it's what terrorists want.  Making people scared to live their lives is their goal.  So it's onwards.  If not upwards, then perhaps sideways.  Not backwards. 

F is also for fixing and finishing.  I'm not allowing myself to start any new projects until my WIPs are hemmed, sequinned, ripped and resewn, pressed, washed and hung.  Sideways, but not backwards.

Eat the frog

There's a ton of fun stuff that I want to do today.

But in keeping with Alphabet August, E is for Eat the Frog.  That means do the things I really would rather avoid first.

1. tidy up the mess that the joiner left, and ring him to unfortunately arrange for him to come back - would rather never see him again
2. do the paperwork for the insurance claim for my lost luggage so DH gets his cash back
3. buy dinner
4. finish one basket of ironing
5. chase the mechanic about the car

Actually, the list is so long (goes on waaaay past that) that I might not get to any of the fun stuff.  Which includes getting out my jewellery stuff again, inspired by this blog, and planning a quilt for our friend's new little girl, using some of the Posy Gets Cozy passamenterie fabrics which arrived a few months ago.  I was going to do it very pink, but now I'm thinking colourful instead.

I can't complain, I did get to go to the gym this morning.  Now it's time to race through some of the items on the list, in return.

Oh yes.  E is for Evil.

I've wondered if perhaps I limit myself sometimes in this blog, I am perhaps more reflective but am I always 'me'? I think I try to be cheery, so in fact I probably just don't post when I'm pissed off - which in turns explains why I've taken on the August alphabet posts, to make me write more even if I don't feel like it. 

I've solved it by giving myself another one.  My evil blog. I wonder whether it would appeal to people who read this one.  Possibly. Possibly not.  Either way, I'm not intending to link them.

Ok, so I'm too much of a Pollyanna for it to be really evil.  But it's all about some of the issues that are getting to me - personal but probably universal.  Just because they're universal doesn't mean that you need to hear me unloading here though - and that's the way that I like it. I can divide my thoughts Jekyll and Hyde like over two diverse sites.  Blogging -  anonymous, public, unburdening, self-expression.  Gotta love it.

The Skin Horse

D is for Dearly Beloved...

This is one of the readings from the marvellous wedding we went to this weekend.  We cried, clapped, cheered, danced and celebrated a gorgeous couple. It was fabulous.

From The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.  "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

More here...

Learning experiences

The Letter C.

Currently loving: Rostitchery
I was reading some blogs on a break from ironing, ironically enough, and found Rostitchery.  Her title bar echoes my thoughts in my last post about what's "good enough" - and I was very glad that I did persevere with the Yellow Peril dress for the wedding - or dresses, as I made two views from the same pattern and wore B under A.   No sign of those knobbly knees at all.

Compliments: I was flattered to get so many lovely comments (nothing like these ones  - reload and reload for increasing bewilderment) about the dress.  One admirer was a very sweet girl who's a stylist - and the second time she mentioned it, I caved and said 'Thanks, I made it.'  I'm really glad I did, as it turns out that her mum was a seamstress and has bought her a sewing machine, but she hasn't ever used it and is dying to learn.  So we're making a date to get together and have a bit of a stitch and bitch session.  The blind leading the blind...

Comedy:  scroll down and begin at the bottom of the list under Old School Animated Gifs so that you can properly meet Humphrey and Duncan.  Genius. (also tried to introduce you to the Semaphore Ninja but he doesn't want to play today)

Cat: Looks like I better get back to the ironing before everything is covered with kitty fur.  Little sod.

I made it. Now I'll lie in it.

B is for...

Bed.

Our ginormous, new six foot bed is simply gorgeous.  It would be better if the kitties didn't come in and wake me up by jumping on it from 5.30 am (no door locks and latches yet - long story) and it's lucky that I know how to make a bed properly - after a summer long ago working here - because it's a slightly odd size and so I had to get sheets that are quite a bit wider than the mattress.  But gloriously comfortable.  My mother gave me two vintage hand-embroidered pillowcases which now are occupying pride of place in the boudoir, and which my DH was daft enough to deride when he first came home.

           

I admit it... I pulled the 'My mother gave us those' line.  It worked a treat.  He looked suitably abashed and the pillowcases are staying.

B is also for great blogs.  Maybe some of these are well known and maybe some are hidden gems. Either way...

Ticky Tacky  Check out her Flickr stuff, inspiring. 

I'm a longtime reader of Petulant Feminine.  And I admire any woman who makes an apron from purple satin.

This lady is indeed a Creative Little Daisy.

More than a yarnstorm in a teacup.

And this girlie is probably right when she says 'My house is cuter than yours'.

And finally, B is for Big Bro's Birthday.  He's 34 today.  Happy Birthday, Slap.  He's a luddite so won't ever read this - but he's also very cool.  Bizarrely, he shares his birthday with Martha Stewart - I can safely say that's all they have in common apart from my ardent admiration of both.  And on this day in 1963 Allan Sherman released 'Hello Muddah Hello Faddah', snippets of which my mother still sings to me on occasion (as well as frequently quoting the 'Don worry, Matha is heya' bit from another song of the era - wish I knew the title - or indeed could find it on iTunes.  It's about a mother who I think answers the phone to a distraught daughter who's enduring all sorts of disasters, and repeatedly drawls - 'don't worry, Mother is here' until it's revealed that it's a wrong number... there's a pause and a little voice says 'Does that mean you're not coming?'  That makes me laugh over the phone - unfortunately Mother isn't heya, she's a sea away - boooo.) 

Both those ditties remind me of happy times listening to the radio on Saturday mornings, to the kids club stuff on RTE.  It's a long way from the Cartoon Network, let me tell you.  The other musical gems were the Danny Kaye one about the Ugly Duckling and the Mouse on the Stairs...

A is for...

...August.
...Alphabet.

Alphabet August. 

Attempting to Better my Creative Daily Effort.   

So in short, I'm going to try to make twenty-six posts in August, each one brought to you by a different letter.  Quite why I'm diving into this right now, I'm not sure.  Masochism springs to mind.  But at least I'm giving myself the 30 remaining days for the 26 required posts.

A is for August.

August is Admit You're Happy Month. 
According to the Secret Society of Happy People,

In August wear your SILVER shades, donate your SILVER coins—pay someone’s toll, bus or subway fare, buy a soda, or take up a donation for your favorite charity, or pass out SILVER kisses. Why SILVER? Because not-so-secretly happy people have a way of finding the SILVER lining in even the darkest clouds.

And here's why you should get happy. Perhaps by moving to Vanuatu.

The Secret Society of Happy People's aims for the month of August, and no doubt beyond:

Recognize and express happiness

Don’t rain on other people’s parades

Which reminded me of the thought-provoking posts that I read last night about blogging and comments.  This particular response from Theresa C gave me pause:

I've been reading yuor (and other) blogs through bloglines, so i often don't go to the comment box. Is this going as unpleaseant as it sounds? That makes me question the way I read blogs. Maybe I should take some time to tell how much I appreciate the ones I read (and long for) for some time now. As in any other relationship, maybe I should care a little more.

I regularly read quite a few blogs but don't always comment.  Delurk, people, get your virtual selves out there*.  When you read a blog that makes you smile or frown in contemplation, or swoon, tell the author.  Same with Flickr photos etc.  Without being cruel or rude - particularly from behind the cowardly cloak of 'anonymity'.  As my mother says, if you can't say something nice...

Share some happiness, for the month that's in it. 

*I'm being a little presumptuous here, assuming that anyone is reading this.