Ask Sheila

Dear Sheila,

I was sitting with some other mums during a class my kids were taking and one of the mums was talking about how she and her family had recently emptied their house of possessions and moved into a little caravan. She talked about how freeing it was, having so little stuff. Another mother agreed fervently, well, I thought it seemed a little fervent, so I piped up. "I don't know if I could do that," I joked. The other two mothers looked at me very severely and said that if I had less stuff I'd be happier. Is that true? Would I be happier with less stuff?

signed,

Hoarder


Dear Hoarder,

First off, stop calling yourself a hoarder. Hoarders are people who have so many newspapers lining their front hallway they can barely get in the door. You're a collector - who knows when you might need those five packages of orange feathers, twenty five feet of plastic ivy, thirteen 3" white binders, or that 5-tiered stack of square wooden beads that your SIL gave one of your children for Christmas six years ago and while they never used them they are so pretty with those cool African designs you hate to give them away. Remember those cases of discarded tiles you picked up every Friday after gym class, the ones that tile store used to put out beside their dumpster (until they realized that one person was taking them each week)? You ended up making a lovely tiled address plate with those. So what if it took you three years to decide what to do with them - every artist needs time to let those ideas percolate.

Ignore those mothers. They have a pathology of their own: it's called a lack of imagination. You can see into the future, to a time when your youngest child might need a 3" binder (so what if it's a colour your kid hates) - they can't. Let them sit in their tiny little caravan and feel superior, while you sit amongst your piles of stuff. You're ready for anything!

But wait! There's more!

Spring showing itself in the garden

New hellebore flower

Richard Parker, I presume?

What's that I hear? The happy jingle of my crunchies?

Toffee basks in the glow of familial worship

Random New Camera Photos

Cheeky primrose defies the pot of Mondo grass sitting on its head

Did you see that oh-so-critical word in that title up there? No? Well, go back and have another look. I'll give you a hint: it's not RANDOM. Got it now? No of course you haven't. Not to worry, this is my blog and I am here to inflict all my rambling witticisms on you, not to mention all the photos I'm taking with my new camera.

Sheila pauses and looks somewhat smug

That's right. My NEW camera. My old camera bit the dust (quite literally) one sunny day far far away and is now resting comfortably in Camera Heaven (that's what I tell the kids so they don't get too upset). It was a charming little point & shoot that I loved so much I put it in my This Is What I Get Should We Divorce record with Richard. He chose the espresso machine (like most sensible couples we only get petty over essentials). And while the old P&S was just a little slip of a thing, this new camera is a DSLR. It has weight. It has heft. Has a case that's bigger than my purse. Has a manual that is bigger than my purse. Comes with a DVD of instructions, but I haven't looked at that yet because, quite frankly, it scares me somewhat to think that I might not be able to understand what the heck they are talking about with all those weird f-things and apertures and stuff.

 But I digress. I promised to inflict photographs on you and inflict I shall!

Come closer and we will swallow you in one gulp

Sheila's Tidy Spot

Wait! What's that I spy with my little telephoto lens?

Why! It's a cherry plum, in full blossom!

Budding Pear

Sheila Gets Atmospheric

Toffee and his unwittingly obscene tail

Toffee's version of the Catwalk

He knows how to work it, doesn't he?

The trees are infested with these things!

Finally I can see what is off in the distance!

This reminds me of something from Spirited Away

 So there you have it. My new toy. I feel maternally thrilled with it, too, so no telling me that I'm out of focus or anything or I might mail you that instructional DVD.

By the way, is it me (oh please don't say it is) or it Blogger doing weird things? I do not like the new formatting palette I have and I don't like how I keep getting mysterious links added all over the place. If you have any thoughts (nice ones only) or tips do send them. 

Rolling Along

My camera finally made its way home from Palm Springs, 4 weeks after I did. I can only assume it had a really good time without me. Now to develop the 394 photos I took.

In the meantime, a photo of how some of us spent our holiday time. I have no commentary, other than to point out that we all have our quirky sides.

Some of us more than others, of course.

Let Me Count The Ways

How I love you, too.

Happy Birthday, Yoko, you're looking pretty good.

My favourite Yoko Ono song HERE.

Feminism, Beyonce, and the SuperBowl

Did anyone else feel their heart sink while watching Beyonce's half-time show at last week-end's Superbowl? Did you think "ugh, I hope my daughter doesn't think THIS is what constitutes a smart, savvy female in today's world" then start a conversation about how self-worth shouldn't be completely predicated on one's 'hotness' quotient while Beyonce gyrated in the background, in what looked like a posher version of Borat's thong? Or did you do like my hairdresser and pump your fist and say "that chick ROCKS"?

I know, I am taking a very antiquated position on Beyonce. I know everyone thinks she's cool and smart and beautiful. I also know that a number of young women think she is a Good Female Role Model, but I put that down to the fact that they are still in the stage of life where being Really Hot is all there is, because there is no way I can call what Beyonce did at the Superbowl (ie: stripping, preening, posing) something I'd admire seeing my daughter doing at ANY point in her life. I wouldn't tweet about how proud I was to see her do it either (cough - Michelle Obama I'm talking to you - cough). And I won't get into how Beyonce crouched on the stage and whipped her hair at the fans...oh hell, why not: what was THAT all about? Do we really attend concerts so we can gaze at a woman's (practically naked) crotch while she whips her (fake dyed) hair in our faces? Are we supposed to shriek out loud while watching a woman rip off a piece of her costume to reveal, well, even less of her costume? I'm all for nudity and sex and good times, but getting on a podium and gyrating in front of a crowd? Isn't that what strip clubs are for?

Blah.

I'll end this brief rant with a quote I'm particularly fond of. It's from Caitlin Moran's charming How To Be A Woman:

One doesn't want to be as blunt as to say, "Girls, get the fuck off the podium—you're letting us all down," but: Girls, get the fuck off the podium—you're letting us all down.

Get off the podium, Beyonce, if nothing else than for your daughter's sake. Girl Power, and it's older, crankier cousin Feminism, should be about way more than continuing the Sexual Objectification Game.

Chook

The chook chooks (as we refer to the chickens) are now over their dreadful bout of moulting, thank goodness. There is something very disconcerting about those rows of white spikes emerging from their necks, not to mention the feathers that fly off whenever they fluff themselves. You show up to let them out of the coop in the morning and there are feathers everywhere. You count the number of chickens still alive. They appear to be all there but those feathers! Hundreds of feathers! Enough to outfit several chickens at once - all lying on the ground. It's a chicken horror movie.

I've been away for a couple of weeks, and the first thing I noticed when I came back and went out to feed the chooks the next morning was, well, how predatory they seemed. It's evident where their raptor relatives fit into the picture, as they raced at me that morning, eyes darting opportunistically, beaks looking for the first peck, necks banging into beaks and combs. Fern leaped up and tried to eat one of my coat buttons and I had a brief and very disturbing vision of me falling down in the grass and the chickens devouring my still-warm carcass in seconds, pirana like. I ended up dashing to the gate and squeezing through, then tossing their scratch over the gate, just in case what I had wasn't a weird overly-imaginative moment but a glimpse of my immediate and very vulnerable future.

Yes, laugh all you like. I'll let YOU feed them tomorrow, then we'll see who's laughing.

Yesterday I saw Prunella and Fern tearing at something long and white, until Prunella finally wrested control, flung herself across the yard, then paused and took a few chunks out of this long white thing. I pushed her aside and picked it up. It was a plastic plant tag. Sorbet Mix Pansies.

Good thing there is a useful, edible product from all this fun, otherwise I might find myself leaving their side doors open one night, so the raccoons can take their chances with my brainless little nightmare fowls.