March 17, 2010
Some of these dolls are custom ordersThis is the link to the Fbook fanpagePlease join!And this is the link to my Louie Louie Bebe blog, where I post all the new dolls and toys, work in progressand mind blowing storiesof behind the scenes;-}The doll below is an example of the finished dolls.She lives in Australia now.Her name is Katia.I really love what I do. I love making dolls. I enjoy every aspect of it, even the long hours and my miserable hands and fingers.This is Hanna.I named her after two of my beautiful aunts.p.sIf you tell me you found my dolls through my xanga, I will give you a 10% discount!
March 16, 2010
So. I am back.Who would have thunk.I have tried to return here several times, but I could. not. remember. my. darn. username&password combo, and xanga kept kicking me out. I chose to take it as a hint, because I was young(er) and foolish(er).Now, believe it or not, I regained my memory and xanga said :hello, stranger, and here I am, a few years older, a few pounds heavier, and one girl richer.Quirk is now the worn out mother of not one, but T W O toddlers. Baby Quirk is now nearing the ancient age of 6, and Baby Quirka will beF O U R years old at the end of this month.They are the sweetest, funniest, smarty pants', clever, creative, crazy kids, ever.And I do mean E.V.E.RHere they are:
October 6, 2005
I'm not dead, yet, although I certainly look the part, some mornings.
You've forgotten who I am, by now.
You've forgotten my strange ways.
You've forgotten my ridiculously unnatural way of forming sentences that never, never end.
You've forgotten my quirky quirks.
Unfortunately, I don't have the time to refresh your memory.
I am only here to fling my arms, bow, and reassure you that indeed, I am taking good, good care of zee BabyQuirk.
I am only here to say that I miss writing,
reading and I terribly,
terribly miss wasting valuable time on a daily basis.
I miss wasting time, damnit.
I never get to waste any time, anymore.
My activities are varied, but they do not include wasting time. I think it's a crying shame.
I'm either slaving my butt off, serving the crawler, or slaving my butt away, minding the crawler.
The rest of the time I spend tossing and turning in bed, trying ever so desperately to fall asleep but unable to,
for fear of neglected duties in the service of you-know-who.
And I've forgotten how to write.
I've forgotten the skill of making logical, coherent sentences.
I've forgotten how grown ups speak and I've forgotten what it is they speak about. Grown ups, that is.
BabyQuirk is sensational. He is the best BabyQuirk that ever, ever lived.
He speaks, he laughs at silly, silly jokes and even makes silly, silly jokes. He crawls a l l o v e r t h e p l a c e, he pulls Dog George's tail, and gets away with it; he pulls the cats' tail, and gets away with it, too, although barely. (The cat is less tolerant and forgiving under provocation, as we've all recently found out.)
BabyQuirk is splendid.
MamaQuirk is happy.
The Groom is delighted.
Dog George is not as delighted. In fact, Dog George is anything but delighted.
Newf is a little grumpy, due to an unfortunate misunderstanding. It seems that Newf honestly believed that BabyQuirk actually belongs to h e r.
She was quite puzzled when she realized that neither The Groom, nor I, understand it.
She was quite distraught when we pulled his left foot of her enormous jaw, b e f o r e she managed to complete the manicure she has scheduled for him.
She was quite pissed, actually, when she was kindly escorted outside after another puzzling incident, involving a Newf lap, a crawling dwarf, and a toy rabbit. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to give away any more details.
The cats are definitely not very happy. Not only are they not very happy, but if you ask me, they take bold steps to make sure their unhappiness doesn't go unnoticed, if you know what I mean.
(because I don't. know. what I mean, that is.)
Anyway. Where were we.
I am not dead, yet, but I could have fooled me.
Dead tired, due to a constant, continuous, uninterrupted, lack of, um, sleep.
( I wrote sheep, twice. If that' s not proof enough, I don't know what is.)
I apologize for neglecting to thank you all for the absolutely wonderful comments you've left on that last post.
It was lovely to read, and I am truly sorry I didn't reply to each and every one of you in person.
I most certainly would have done so, if the wee tyrant who rules my world agree to spare me for enough time.
However, inside sources assured me that once BabyQuirk turns 18, I can expect some more free time.
After a few minutes and a lot of sighs, the same source said that I shouldn't really hold my breath in anticipation.
Some children, the source said, are a little more clingy.
The source then pointed a manicured finger at my two younger sisters, aged 23 and 26,
who still live at home.
"Luckily," the souce concluded, "BabyQuirk does not share our gene pool."
April 8, 2005
Wake up, sleepy heads, wake up !
I have an announcement to make. Are you ready?
The Quirk now has a baby Quirk of her own !
No need to gaze at other quirks' babies and drool ! Now I can simply look at my own wee quirk and drool !
(It's our favorite pass time, in case you were wondering. Droolers of the world, Unite! )
He is nearly 10 months old, charming and hilariously funny. Clever, wise, and oh so cuddly..
We are outrageously happy, quirks, both the Groom ,the bride and zee wee quirk.
It was a bumpy road, but it's behind us, now.
I am almost certain that one of these days I'll share the entire story of our mad, mad escapade, but not now.
Now I have more pressing matters to attend, such as crushing and butchering a perfectly perfect chicken soup into a gustly paste. My baby likes it that way..
Thank you all for the wonderful wonderful emails, the comments, the support.
Love to you all.
Forgot to mention that BabyQuirk was adopted in Russia 31 March, 2005.
July 20, 2004
Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk
Yesterday evening a feeble, weary Quirk waddled out of the village's wee public library, with splendid plunder. Cautiously, she leaned against the wall, examining the street.
"Trust no one, " her plastic bag said.
Indeed, the library was crowded and the a/c did not cool, but why be petty, when on a folding table in the narrow hall, hundreds of books were up for adoption?
Our tiny library will shortly be moving to a grand abode, and to do it properly and enter the new residence with style, they're shooing away all the crippled, old books. Books that no one wants. No one, but a few mad quirks.
I had to arm wrestle a woman to win Conrad's Victory. I kicked a man's ankle, just to cause a slight distraction and stealthily sneak Anatole France's Le Crime de Sylvestre Bonnard, into my sleeve. This last operation was slightly difficult, though, due to my sleeveless tank top.
Still, who's counting?
Le Crime de Quirkity Quirk was a crime of passion, and for that I imagine that in some countries I wouldn't even have to do time.
A 1968 edition of Around the World in Eighty Days, solely for its hilarious cover, featuring an illustrated scene from what the front page refers to as "a movie extravaganza."
I stood silent for a long moment, reflecting with a 1958 edition of David Howarth's We Die Alone cradled next to my heart. I must have shed a million tears over this book, perhaps more, as a child.
A weary copy of Hardy's Mayor of Casterbridge was also rescued from an unfortunate future in the grinder; and the list goes on.
The village's librarian, a woman in her early sixties, with whom the Quirk has a strong alliance, helped disguize the rescued books as trash, throwing them into a huge plastic bag. The Quirk, a woman with some sense of style, didn't even blink. She was a woman on a mission, and actions speak louder than words and really, let he who is without sin cast the first stone, not to mention that people who live in glass houses should never cast stones. Really. It's unhealthy.
The Quirk saw Bob. Bob saw the Quirk. There was a long silent moment and a strong sense of the bond between them. That moment passed. and after that, everything happened so fast, that it could fit perfectly into a 30 sec. commercial, and have enough time for credits. A red beat up Hunda raced around the corner, breaking abruptly not half a centimeter before the Quirk's feet. A small blonde with an annoying tan jumped out of the car, while inside all hell broke loose. Four funky midgets in the back seat gave way to exhilaration while the sturdy blonde grabbed the Quirk's arm and dragged her over to Bob.
Thus begins chapter Two, Quirks, which we shall name:
Leaning against Bob's steering wheel, the brave Quirk shivered like a sick leaf, while the blonde, snickering, interrogated her sans mercy. "What's in the bag, Quirk?" the woman repeatedly asked.
The Quirk bit her lips and knew, deep in her heart, that if she doesn't meet a loo soon, she will experience a deja vous all over again, from that time when she was four and mommy was late to pick her up. Alright, alright, I'll tell you, stop pestering me! the brave Quirk said. She knew that blonde. She knew that if this woman ever finds out what the platic bag contained, it will all be over in a splash. "
It's pasta, dude. Home. Made. Pasta," the fearless Quirk said, while the woman, tough cookie that she is, kicked the bag.
Only Quirks can hear the heartbreaking squeak hurt books squack. [shutup!]
The Quirk's heart missed a beat, while her mind raced. One of these books will undoubtedly need some stitches, a single gray cell said.
"Ahhhh, pastaaarrrrrr...good! We're in luck! " the vicious woman said. "Start your engine, Quirk. We're embarking on a journey you will never forget," she said. "Around the village in eighty seven secs."
It was late when the Quirk was set free. Some of her books were not as lucky. The blonde took one look at the quirk's plastic bag and within a fraction of a light year confiscated the creme de la creme.
Evil witch, that Iris is.
July 16, 2004
Slowly but surely, sweating blood and shedding tears, I'm completing my romantic education. I've watched "Love, Actually" yesterday evening, and I think I'm improving because I didn't get very annoyed with the horrible performance and the awfully trite, cheesy script.
I didn't say it didn't bother me, yo. I just said I didn't get extremely annoyed by it.
And before any of you starts nudging me about that paper due Monday, and the final doom come Sunday, I say : Don't mess with me, monkey.
A girl needs her distractions, else, she will wither away and wilt.
Today I'm taking Bob out. I intend to surprise the evil car with a quick bath. Then, we're going to the famous chinese doctor who is not really chinese at all, but who's counting. I'll park Bob next to his joke of a car, (Japanese, actually.) and change into the white cotton Thai pants and white sleeveless tank top, standing on one foot in the tiny bathroom, trying to balance myself without touching the walls, where cobwebs dangle mysteriously, and not a spider in sight.
We'll talk for an hour or so, sitting next to a dining table that bravely imitates a desk.
I will cry, and he will take notes using a long white pencil, and offer me soft pink tissues to wipe the tears away,
from a big flowery box.
Then I'll glide into the room, tip toeing on the white soft mattresses that cover a gigantic oriental rug. I will lay my weary body down and absorb the heat and pretend I'm lying on the beach in the Sinai desert, or Thailand, while he sticks needles in all the right places and speaks softly in exactly the right tone.
Yes, that paper will have to wait a little longer still, for after I leave the chinese doctor, who isn't at all chinese, I'm going to have tea with Iris and her man. A girl needs her friends, at times like this. A girl needs to be pampered with hot, sweet herb tea, and fruit and cookies and the merry sounds of children tearing each other's throats.
And then a girl needs to take her clean car home, feed the dogs, the cats, herself perhaps.
And a girl then simply must sit at her desk and write a paper, even though she is dying to crawl into bed and lose touch with reality; even though she may wish to broaden her romantic horizons with yet another romantic cliche` of a film, even though it has been a while since she was a girl. But still.
July 15, 2004
Sex in the Village
So The Groom has been away since zee 1st of June, quirks. It is now mid July and there is yet an entire month to wait until my needs will be met.
I can't get no. No, seriously, people. I'm like an inmate locked in confinement. Solitary confinement.
I have no sex life.
I watch "Mystic River," and lust for Sean Penn, that's how bad it is.
I nearly ran over an incredibly sexy man yesterday, who was taking an evening run. That's how frustrated I am.
"You're hot, dude. You don't deserve to live."
And I can't fucking get any. Sleep.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, The Groom is getting impatient, too.
"What are you wearing," he now says over the phone, instead of a courteous 'hello.'
I'm afraid our sex life will never be the same after this.
July 13, 2004
I'm feeling so low today, and I don't even know why. I'm tired and cranky, and everything makes me sad.
I've spent the afternoon sprawled on the sofa, watching "The Horse Whisperer," and damnit, I wept through it like a hungry baby, or a drunken fool. Can I sink any lower, do you think ?
I mean, bloody hell, Quirks! The bloody Horse Whisperer!
No. I didn't think so either.
I am bitterly sorry for exposing you all to this. I mean, where are the days when humor used to reside in Quirkia? Where?
I don't know. I even thought that perhaps posting today wasn't a good idea, in fear of scaring away the few brave souls reading still.
I have nothing to say. I feel overwhelmed with shallowness and sadness; exhausted. My body feels awkward. Everything seems dull and gray.
Yes, yes. Tomorrow is another day.
Next thing you know, I'll turn the living room curtains into a ball gown.