baby name inspiration board: { oscar }


OSCAR (Aw-scerr)

MEANING: divine spear; lover of deer(English/Gaelic)

SOUNDS LIKE: hearty; masculine; intelligent

FEELS LIKE: touching an oil painting; snuggling and reading mystery stories out loud in front of a crackling fireplace; the smell of leather and cedar; rain at dusk




WOWO | DUDU Yellow cotton T-shirt : Little Fashion Gallery
FINGER IN THE NOSE | MERCURY Grey parka : Little Fashion Gallery
converse sneakers
Mahar Drygoods :: Raven Pull Toy
ModernChild :: Furniture, Fashion, Books
Black Beauty, le jogging extensible noir de Shampoodle
Oscar le chien, une créature de Donna Wilson


shortie goat gruff

I love blogging. I've been "at this" for almost two years now, and I still get a thrill every time a new reader comments, or I get added to a blogroll, or a new connection is made with one of the truly awesome people out there in bloggy land. Our Little Haus has had a lovely growth spurt this winter, and I couldn't be happier. Hello, new readers! Hello, readers who were here before! (See, our friendship is such that I won't call you "old readers" lest it hurt your collective feelings) With that growth though, comes the addition of a certain segment of the blogging community that is universally unwelcome - trolls.

Hello, trolls! I really enjoy your derogatory comments and hate mail! Thanks!

*smiles brightly*

{image source here}

What's a troll? According to blogging legend, trolls reside in "dank dark basements," where they spend countless hours "trolling" the net, leaving a trail of comments so vile that even a Disney villain would blanch. They're the ones telling you everything you'd hope you'd never hear.  According to the Crusty Curmudgeon, trolls are people who

"talk mighty tough with the anonymity of the Internet to hide behind, but real life they are sniveling little worms, slight of build and meager-brained. Almost exclusively males (and maybe it is exclusive to men...or boys), you can also bet that they have never had a girlfriend, have never been romantically involved with anyone, and have never had sex (excluding the family dog.)" (source)

Perhaps a little harsh, but once your read or receive "troll" comments, you may be inclined to agree. There are several ways of dealing with the little buggers.  A sampling:

1) Delete their comments and ignore them. You are zen, you are bigger than this. Besides, mulling over such negativity will totally ruin your 'chi' for the day.

2) Delete their comments and pretend to ignore them, but stew about the incident over the course of the day. Have imaginary, heated conversations with said troll while in the shower.

3) Leave their comment up but respond civilly and logically to it.

4) Leave their comment up but flip out in your response to it. Use words that would make your father blanch.

5) Never check your comments again.

6) Disable your commenting function.

7) Quit blogging.


Well, I don't plan on doing 4, 5, 6, or 7. Number 3 never works because trolls crave attention and will flame you back in response. I'd like to say I am currently practicing # 1, but my center of focus often wavers when my ego/id/what have you is being attacked. So, instead, I hide in the shower, turning up the heat until the water is scalding hot, and then say all sorts of vile things. Except, I'm really not very good at comebacks...

Example: A few years ago, my sister was receiving really sick prank calls, and witnessing one such call, I became so enraged that I demanded that she give me the phone. With the phone in my hand and and disgusting threats in my ear, I froze and my normally quite glib tongue stilled. The caller continued, and I found enough confidence to stutter,

"Oh yeah? Oh yeah?! Well, why...why don't you go and take a shower and clean out your mouth!"

And then I hung up the phone. 

So, I think you can imagine what my hot-water rebuttals sound like. Or, for another example; this is me:



How do you deal with the trolls under your blogging bridge?


More tips here, here, and here.


the highwayman

When we were little, some of my fondest memories were spent with my father at bedtime. Invariably, every dinner was spent with my father reading a chapter or two of a classic novel. A Tale of Two Cities, the Mayor of Catsterbridge; my mother, my sisters and I would sit quietly at the table after the dishes were cleared, listening with rapt attention to each unfolding story. My father read adult classics to us this way, feeding the flame of bibliophilia that was already burning brightly within our chests.  After we had had our baths, brushed our teeth, combed our hair, and put on our nightgowns, we would climb into our respective beds and my father would come in to read some more to us. Bedtime fare was fairytales and poetry; stories read in dusty well-worn tomes, pages of poems read to us in my father's carefully enunciated, lilting voice. In the soft glow given off by my pink-shaded lamp, I would study his face, and then turn my gaze to the ceiling, imagining flyaway horses, monkeys of the ning-nang-nong (where cows go bong), and the quickening sound of hoof beats as the highway man drew ever closer.


{image source here}

The highway man. A haunting, evocative, and utterly romantic poem by Alfred Knowles, it never ceased to give me a delightful thrill. Read it for yourself, and if you like, play the equally eerie and atmospheric song by Loreena McKennitt and follow along.




 written by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)



THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.


He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.


Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.


And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—


"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."


He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.




He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.


They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.


They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!


She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!


The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .


Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!


Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.


He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.


Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * * *


And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.


Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair



pink, to make the boys wink

Has anybody noticed anything around the Haus lately? ;)

I was feeling a bit claustrophobic, so I thought I'd take a moment to tidy up. I've received many lovely comments and emails about how much you all loved the old design, so I tried to keep the same feeling and colour scheme in this new one, for continuity.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is...what do you think? Do you like the new design?



No, I'm not pregnant yet. Yes, I eat like a horse. Yes, I seem to be queasy all of the time and can smell the perfume you wore yesterday, today. Yes, that's me sleeping, standing up, at work. Yes, my boobs are spectacular.

 No, I'm not pregnant yet. Apparently, I'm just a very hungry, unspecifically sick and tired, well-bosomed individual, who would really rather that people stop winking and smiling knowingly at her. The more I protest that no, I'm most definitely not hatching a blastocyst at the moment, the wider the smiles become. They doth think this lady protests too much.

And I suppose you can't really blame them, especially when I go to the supermarket and come back with:

sixteen pairs of baby socks (11 pairs shown for the counters out there)

two adorable touque sets and two adorable tam-o-shanter sets (for my scottish babies?)



a 'just-like-daddy' outfit (Mr. Shortcake has the same touque, and the shirt's dog looks like his first dog)


a onesie fit for baby's first corporate take-over


and a sweeter-than-steevia sleeper



No, I'm not pregnant yet....I just can't resist a good deal! ;)