More information about possums can be found here, though what they won't tell you is that possums will eat practically anything not nailed down, exhibit a penchant for living in ceilings, and like to party all night long, making the most God-awful, gutteral sounds that are guaranteed to keep all but the most prescription-medicated reposers awake. And even them, sometimes.
Apart from that, they are very cute, and completely non-threatening.
My life is a litany of unfinished craft projects, ask anyone who knows me. For every piece that I finish, there are ten destined for non-completion.
But when I see one of Mym's little guys, half-finished, lying abandoned, alone, knowing full well that he/she is bound to end up on the floor at the tender mercy of Big Stupid, I am hardwired for rescue.
To leave them to their Gruesome Fate would make me a Bad Mother.
And although, in many respects, I probably am a Bad Mother (but let's not go there),
in this particular respect I am exemplary.
Such a concept is central to the very existence of Poppalina. It goes something like this:
Mym starts a project, works on it for awhile, becomes bored, frustrated, or jams up the machine (go easy on the Bernina, dammit!), and tosses it wantonly over her shoulder as she wanders off to watch TV. Shula, meanwhile, dives, Aussie Rules style, for the Mark of the Day, examines her catch, has her (shrivelled, black) heart melted by said creation, unjams Bernina, and sits up till 4am finishing it.
And so it's been since she was 3.
As working relationships go, I've seen worse.
So, meet Max, whom I found stranded on the desert island of my sewing machine table last night, as I sat down to do something else altogether.....sigh.
One of the nice things about being at a Steiner school is the fact that crafting is not only appreciated, but actively encouraged.
The school abounds in crafty kids and parents.
I found a woman who dyes wool for felting and spinning. I don't know her name, (though there are bloggers out there who do), but her business is called Craft Circle, based in Yarraville.
I got very excited, and bought some immediately.
(Just try to ignore Rude Chicken, he's actually got nothing to do with this post. It's the kind of thing that happens when your photographic assistant is a dog.)
There is a tendency sometimes, though, for the craft to be a little on the conservative side. Mym, who is a newcomer to the Steiner Program, missed the doll-making component last term, much to her disappointment, so decided to try her hand at a Steiner doll.
She named it Peewee, and proudly presented it to the class.
The response was one of unanimous dismay. No one could understand why she would want to make a doll with two heads. Her teacher (very nicely) asked her to take it home and remove one of the heads. I think he found it disturbing.
She brought it home. But the head stays. As she furiously pointed out, how's she supposed to decide which head gets to die? Pee, or Wee?
'It would be like pulling the arms off my teddy! What is he? Insane?!', she stormed.
She also said a number of other things. Things to make her truck-driving forefathers proud. All of them unrepeatable.
Grownups (sigh). There are some things they just don't understand.
And I guess the mind of a 12 year old Creative Genius is one of them.
Memo to those of you considering marriage: think carefully before you have the commemorative tea towels printed, especially on good quality linen. There is an excellent chance that the tea towels will outlast not only your marriage, but probably you as well.
Poor Di. She's not even married yet, and already her desperate unhappiness is enshrined, for All Eternity, in Irish linen (now there's an irony). Possibly just a trick of the printing process, but she looks positively mournful. Whereas Charles, on the other hand, came out rather shiny. And perky. But then, he's going to get to keep the old girlfriend, the house, and the succession, so he's, like, coastin' maaaate.....
A Revered Elder would say that Di's instability is conclusively proven by an excess of white under the eyes, a sure sign of severe neurosis/madness (according to RE). This assessment has always troubled me. My thyroid has left me with too much white under the eyes as well. Does that mean I'm mad now, but wasn't before? Or was I always just Mad In Waiting, given that the condition was incipient for some time before diagnosis? And it seems to me that Di cheered up significantly once she escaped the jug-eared husband (not sure what RE has to say about jug ears, have to check that one out, bound to be something)
The good news is that I am the latest proud owner of the Royal Tea Towel, and will be adding it to my vintage collection. Not drying with it, though. Oh, no. This baby goes up on the wall.
I have another reason to value it, too. The night Princess Di died (it was afternoon here), I was working the floor of a cafe with the Soon To Be Man of My Dreams, acting all casual and busy and pretending he was just Some Guy (I'm congenitally honest, so I wasn't doing a very good job of the casual and pretending bit). When the news came in, half the staff had nervous breakdowns and had to be sent home, completely distraught, leaving MOMD and I to deal with a hopelessly short-staffed Sunday rush. This was bonding enough, but we were bonded even further by our shared bewilderment at the public outpouring of grief over the (regrettable, but let's not get carried away) death of a complete stranger.
We went on our first date that night. And my feet didn't touch the ground for weeks. And I have the (regrettable, but let's not get carried away) demise of Princess Di to thank for it.