Do not go into the Darkness Lady C!

So many wonderful posts since I have been at sea on my internal voyage, tossing and turning and maintaining even keel on the waves or whatever the watery word is in these matters.

I don't agree that we should stop this lovely correspondance, for while I might gnash my teeth against time, the notion keeps me clear and grounded. Also my dear, it is like opening little gifts constantly. Sometime a dear photo, other time something silly or richly observed. It is a treasure box constantly refilling itself. I don't want it to halt. Bring on the posts and the pondering!

The fabulous Lady W once said that every lady needs a room of her own.

Lady Ursula says every lady needs a platform in which to reclaim everything that is hers or should be. Tea & Crumpts is our room.

Lady Crumpet's Body Electric

So glad you are feeling much better. I was planning to send you a brass band that played ABBA, but alas... the little fellows were lost in the post. What's up with Cannuck postal?

Word in salons is that you are already propped on your pillow, preening and having happy teas and defying doctors. You are a fast healer Lady C. I envy you your lithe body, that instead of pouting like an immature corpus can, has decided instead to cooperate. Such a body should be celebrated.

Can you hear that humming? See the blinding blue lights when you close your eyes? Sing to your body electric Lady C - Sing!

Psst!

Word has reached me, my dear Lady Ursula, that you are embarking on a voyage of great vision and vigor, sponsored by the Muse and a Publisher. So they tell me. And I listen. And forgive me my tactfulness, but I will tiptoe away from this site for some time while your pen scratches paper fruitfully. Allow me thus to recline in the arms of my new salad chef, the joysome and jaunty Ethan, and await the release of your work. Please visit when ready. Till then, pssst.

Surgery Salon

As if a great weight had been lifted from my cavities, Lady U! A swarm of surgeons (three) accompanied by a team of five nurses lulled me to sleep for the 2.5 hours of my surgery! Imagine, all those capable hands tinkering with my innards, prying away the biohazards to dump them aside and condemn them to a pathology lab!

When all was said, done and excised, my womb lay like a festive turkey borne apart from my tissues, scrapped forever, never to be plaguing me no more!

I now sport a bikini cut like a starlet's grin across my pubic area. Loosened from the grip of 15 staples it smiles coyly upon the world out there, secured by steristrips.

Truly, I do feel like Posh after another one of her tarty liasions with the plastic surgeons, but I am blonder.

Paradoxically,unwomaned, I yet stand a newer, firmer woman with a void dreaming to grow another organ, but what shall it be, o Lady U? An organ of sincerity? Perseverance? Courage? Or, wild to speak, honesty? I must now consider an intelligent husbandry of my innards so that whatever cells come, they shape themselves honorably.

Recovery

As you know, I am currently popping many a pill to maintain an even keel and inicision following my stay at a hospital for matters feminine. Allow me to tell the tale of this enjoyable salon anon!

Draw!

I accept your terms, Lady Ursula. 150 words it should be. But lets draw out the battlelines next week when my house guest, the Lady Minax, departs.

Clashing and Storming

Shall we say 150 words for the flash?

If I Were a Ruffian...

If I were a ruffian, I would challenge you to a dual of flashing fictions. Oh yes, I would say, compose a flash fiction on the tale of a pirate or piratess and let us clash plots in the search of suspense!

Luckily, I am but a swooning patient, slightly wan and anxious, and I will simply simply

sigh.

Where to Start

How to keep up with your astuteness, Lady U! To turn over the beginning of a pirates tale to your reader is wisdom indeed. Here are my suggestions:

Begin with a swash and buckling storm!

Begin with a cheekboned youth teetering on the plank!

Begin with a map found in a Borges book!

Begin with a string of black pearls found in an attic trunk!

Begin by asking the Lady J where to begin now!

The Wiseness of Sir Garth

As a wise man once said Lady C, 'I'm not worthy, I'm not worthyyyyyyy.' Seriously, I would love to for the sake of both you and the young Lady J, but where to start? The pressure to please the one's you really love is too much for me dear Lady. I'm afraid you overestimate my talents.

Backburner?...

Dear Lady U, presuppose the following scenario...

A friend of yours were to be taken ill. She would be taken to her bed for a while, not by a pirate of splendid vigor and cheekbone, but by the scoundrel Captain Scar himself! She would writhe her hands impatiently till she were well enough to fend for herself with her pen, but till then...

She pines for a yarn of adventure! Or maybe even an entire rigging of thunderous narrative prowess that would rehabilitate her spirit and rouse her to deeds of Vice and Valor!

Or a young maiden of good standing and breeding, the Lady J in training, would wish you to spend some page or two writing a tale of swash and buckling kickass exploits so that instead of dreaming in Pink or whatever it is young women dream in these days, she could dream of pillage and plunder and planks buckling under the weight of hapless youths who could not match her in battle!

Would you then say, if two ladies, both alike in dignity, pleaded with you, Mistress of the High Waters of Adventure, Published Author, would you say that a tale of Wicked Pirateology would be confined to the backburner like fish stew? Would you let your friends while away their youths sighing to a distant future?

I think NOT.

What do YOU think?

A Tryst with the Scalpel

I might as well admit that about six o clock tonight I became excited about my impending surgery. Soon, soon, I will become helpless in the hands of a competent and highly trained medical professional who will shear away the source of my troubles.

Into PreAdmissions tomorrow I go! I will be sure to report on the thoroughness of the procedure and what news the medical wizards will gift me with.

Those Cheekbones, Yes!

Dear Lady Ursula, you have posted the perfect post, like a most gracious host!

I have to say, much as the world is as untidy as the bed hair of Lindsay Lohan, it is a better place for Johnny in it and this his image in our parlor!

The Mighty Cheekbones that would Rule the World

You speak wise words Lady C, for did you not see Johnny use his magnificent bone structure to bring other lesser mortals to their knees? Did he not with one strut emasculate one man and with a profile turn wanton a mere slip of a woman? Such is the mighy Depp's power that all in close proximity should fall by the wayside.

The only one who held anything beside him was the voodoo woman. With her bad teeth and raw and animal charms, she turned the Lord D to butter. Even pretty Lady J said, "If anyone should get together it should be those two."

But who can image that explosive couple taking turns washing dishes and eating Sunday roasts at the inlaws? But Lady J speaketh with the innocence and unbridled lust of youth, that see nothing but the immediate present; while I speak of boring longetivity and domestic futures.

My only pirate complaint is how they messed about with Jack's character, trying to lessen the smouldering or make it more Disney friendly. As if one could contain such radiance! Even the amazing Lady Curie would fall short against the Depp.

Lost in Space

O Lady Ursula, you brought tears to my eyes upon invoking the word "home". For what is "home" if not a place as elusive as the bell bottoms of yesteryear or the promise of sweet sweet Nadal winning Wimbledon...Just a touch of a wish, no more. Some of us are born to be at home in the world and others to chafe at it, as do I...I admit...No longer do I feel that the great red white and blue is home. If it ever were or could have been. I tell you truly, Lady U, I have been deluded. Deluded!

I forgot about the fourth, as my diary is my witness. I forgot about it for here it was a work day and not even the fact that I was out with an American and a Canadian changed my mind about it...it fizzled and twizzled and poof it was gone! Suddenly I also learn that it was also a day that the space shuttle did not could not decide how to rise in the air but finally it docked and then what did the astronaut say that was doing the spacewalk?

"It's a beautiful day in Ireland," he said, from above and I thought, such simplicity. For this English astronaut, gazing at Ireland from kajillion miles out there, even Ireland was home!

Not for me, at this time, such luxuries. But for me, certainly, the pleasures of the Mouse House release on pirates starring the delicious Johnny Depp!

The Smell of Weiner

To tell the truth Lady C, the 4th came and went out a titter from me. I've never been fond of the hotdog holiday, least of all now, when neo patriotism, flag stickers and non-stop fireworks, remind me of things I am least happy with from my former home. But if I didn't celebrate Turkey Day or the Scary Great Pumpkin day, then you would see tears Lady C, for those are the holidays that make me homesick and the ones I will always try to keep in my heart.

How do you feel about holidays and not being home for July?

Holi days!

Lady U, did you notice the passage of a national holiday or was the moment of silence more profound for you? I wish to inquire where you stand on the map these July days?

In a Swoon

Aaaahhh, youth!

Ornate Victoriana

You have a pink piano???

Mamma Mia

Dear Lady Ursula, yesterday I spoke at length with The Lady Percy, she of the reformed tooth and manners, and we had a jolly delightful chat about the shameful plight of some talented young women writers wringing their hands after being hung out by their blase agents to cry and dry. But also we touched upon the mother as the alpha and omega of the narrative as well as its silent and often dead partner. For who knows the story of the mother, but the mother, but who writes of the mother? We asked.

The Lady Percy and myself sauntered nimbly through the databases of writers and chillingly realized the mother is an ousted figure because once in a narrative, she would be, as it were, like buttermilk in tea, churning the plot into impotability.

Whereupon, as Edward readied my mango-tini, a tuneful protest came upon me and I rose to my pink piano:

O Mammma! Mamma!
Key to all dramma!
But I dont wanna
More Dramma with you!

I know I ought
Bring you to plot--
But on third thought--
Id rather nottt!

Thus the plight of all mothers, which I selfishly, as you know, shunned.

But anon I will tell you how your quote on the mother as mother of all story rang so many chords for me that I am a jazz symphony, discordantly chiming.

Tales from the Motherside

Interesting tale Lady Crumpet. But isn't it always a mother's story and never the offspring's? Let's face it... a child wouldn't really know what happened and has only the mother's word for the details of that blessed day. A mother is free to embellish or forget - however she feels her birthing deserves to be recalled.

From my own mother I have only surface details. Being her first, she was in no humour to be discomforted in any way. She demanded drugs, a single room, to be put to sleep (as they did in the good old days), ice chips, a coca cola, and once she awake, her make-up case.

Then she asked for her child.

There is a picture of her holding me, looking like a cross between Elizabeth Taylor and Pricilla Presley; with her long dark boufant hair, black eyemakeup and her hot cat on a roof negligie. Yours truly is wrapped up in a pink blanket. A small red angry mouth and tiny x eyes peering up the camera - already at the mercy of this mysterious willful creature, who would by turns frustrate and guilt me out during my life, but always, in her own way, love me.

I think some things are all about the child - but the birthing experience always belongs to the mother. And you are right Lady C. This version I was told is what my mother wanted me to know. What truly happened, how scared and young and unprepared, how helpless and insigficant before nature - is something I will never know about my mother.

Mothers are the original storytellers.

More Tales of Motherhood

Yesterday, dear Lady U, I tinkered with the idea to call a friend of mine who tends to as we say it fondly, pull a Persephone, that is vanish in the caverns of the incommunicado for months and then surface poetically to say hello how are you let me tell you my name.

As you know, I have learned to cultivate a modicum of forgiveness over such dismally inconsistent behavior. So therefore yesterday, since she had emailed me first, I felt a spasm of benevolence and picked up the phone to call her.

Then I put the phone down. Nah, I won't call, I thought. It is late by her standards.

Then I considered. No. I hardly ever call, tempus fugit, she will wake up with new wrinkles tomorrow as another day slides under another day as our minutes tend toward the shore and so forth and besides I was trusting I would get the answering machine.

I did not. She answered!

"You called at the exact time my oldest daughter was born 9 years ago! 10:07 PM!" She exclaimed. I took that to understand that I had walked into the middle of a family party involving children, but fortunately, the said daughter was already tucked in, and a mother in law was on the premises, so we could launch into a discussion of more auspicious events, such as timing, birthdays and likker.

Whereupon I reiterated my fervent belief I must have shared with you, that the labor of the mother and not the emergence of a child should be recognized and honored on a Birthday.

"Let me tell you," my friend spoke slowly, nursing a cold vodka that I nursed too, albeit at a distance, "The first birth was so quick, she came out in four pushes. And I was so selfish then. I realized I did not want to let her go, she was my child so I did not want the world to steal her from me. So I stopped pushing and the nurse asked me what I was doing because Rachel could have been hurt, she was trying to come out and I was suppressing birth."

"The second daughter...now her...They had to tell me to stop pushing that hard. I just wanted her out, out of me, quick, just out already, get on with it." She chuckled.

"I had to laugh at what four years had done to my body." She paused. "The stars were gone from my eyes."

What stories would we hear, dear Lady U if we asked not the child, but the mother, of the events of a birth? I praise myself for my exquisite timing on this one as I fortuitously stumble on such confessions.

Maybe these are tales mothers cannot tell their daughters frankly, but only to other women, whose secrecy is assured by their cluelessness. Such as myself, if I may be so bold to admit.

Alas! Poor England!

I throw on my veil.
I don my sorrow
Take no crumpets nor callers
Today nor tomorrow
(If a morrow should rise
Through sobbing skies.)

Instead, knowing me,
I will slurp down a tea
Laced with rum's golden jiggers
For the goals undelivered.



Aaah, I never did think I would see the day my trusty butler, tini-shaker & salad tosser, Edward, would avail himself of my swooning couch, but I can forgive him this one time, do you not think, Dear Lady U?

I will promptly cross the Beckhams off my summer cocktail list. That will teach him to do injuries while High Matters of International Prestige are at Stake.

Lady Percy's Teeth

Oh dear oh dear oh dear. What is a Lady to do? I have sent word to the hapless one and enclosed a photo of Shane MacGowan (former frontman of Irish band The Pogues). This will teach her I hope, to take less sugar in her tea, to floss twice a day and to visit her dentist regularly.