Uninspired

Inspiration is everywhere!!

Um...except when it's not.

As it turns out, very unlikely picture book characters are ALSO everywhere...


...like The Wire Basket I Took Down From the Top Shelf. I'll call him Dusty.


And here's Leftover Spaghetti Man. Also known as "Sticky".



Doghair Dude. We'll call him Harry.

Meet Shelly. I could write about When Harry Met Shelly.

Or Broken Shelly.

How 'bout my friend Jean Rippa? That one could be a tear-jerker.

Although probably not as much of a tear-jerker as this one:

The adventures of Bill Stack. Sniff. I think I need a tissue...

Sometimes it's better just not to think. Wouldn't you agree, Too Much Takeout Guy?

Right. That's what I thought, too.

Return of Vlad, The White Lined Sphinx Moth

We arrived home on Wednesday to find the newly emerged Vlad waiting to greet us:




Hooray! I was starting to get a little worried, because we'd just hit the three week mark. If you missed the story of Vlad the caterpillar, you can read about him here and here. We identified him as a white lined sphinx moth, also known as a hummingbird moth.




I'm glad I left some sticks in the jar, because we found him hanging on one. I believe like butterflies, they need to hang for a period in order for their wings to fill up properly.




Later we found him clinging to the net on top of his jar, so we took him out to the garden. Since he didn't look ready to fly off, I moved him to the lavender bush:



I've seen his relatives hovering around this bush and hoped he'd be happy there. He was a very cooperative subject, and even let me spread his wings just enough to see the pretty pink underneath. He must've gotten tired of posing, though, because shortly after that he took off!

The first time we saw these hummingbird moths flitting around the lavender bush, it was my son who correctly identified them. All that time spent with his nose in the bug books has it's rewards.

Hummingbird moths are fascinating to see in flight. I tried to embed a video I found, but for some reason it wasn't working...if you'd like to watch how they fly, you can view a video here.

Ballooning Talent

My eleven year old has been learning how to make balloon animals. He’s getting good at it. I wouldn’t try it – I’d get too nervous with all that popping.

He was down to his very last balloon and attempted to learn a new design. I think he ran out of balloon before he could finish it, and instead twisted up his own new design:




He named him Julio.

I think Julio is cool-io.

Do you have any unique or unusual talents?

Spineless

I don’t buy a lot of knick-knacks. I don’t like clutter; I do like being surrounded by objects I truly like. Just once in a while when I come across an object that speaks to me, I spurge. Even then it’s usually a small splurge.

About ten years ago I spotted a small wooden deer in a garden shop. It was such a simple piece of art: a little log body and head, with twig legs and antlers. It was so rustic and whimsical I had to have it. I put it by the front door.

I noticed our entryway was looking neglected, so the other day I tidied up a little. I cleaned up the potted plants and dusted everything, including the little deer. Then I rearranged the items just to change things up a little.

That’s probably why I didn’t notice right away that the little deer was missing. Yesterday I headed out for my morning walk. I passed by my newly tended potted plants, noticed they were looking happier already, and kept walking. I got about three quarters of the way down the block, and then I found this:

Somewhere there's an idiot who thinks a wooden deer head makes an amusing trophy.

Seriously, what is wrong with some people?

If We Wore Hats, Maybe We Could Tip Them Or Something

There‘s a woman I always see in the morning when I walk my dog. I live on the easternmost side of our neighborhood and head west along the river. She begins somewhere at the far west end and walks east. She’s always in the same walking uniform: white sweater, black pants, black sneakers. No dog or anything – she’s up early every morning for exercise. Good for her. At some point every single morning, our paths cross.

She refuses to say hello.

What’s up with this? It always throws me. If we were walking down a crowded city street it would make sense. We could bustle by each other among throngs of strangers all wrapped up in their own business. On a wide open path, surrounded only by trees and birds and a chorus of bullfrogs, it feels awkward.

I’ve tried everything to make the exchange less uncomfortable. I’ve offered cheery good mornings day after day, thinking she might just need time to warm up to me and my galumphing dog. I’ve smiled. I’ve nodded. I’ve made eye contact, or tried, anyway.

I’ve resorted to talking to my dog, as if we were too absorbed in the subject of earthy smells to notice the only human for miles approaching us on an empty path.

Finally, I’ve resigned myself to staring straight ahead, not acknowledging her in any way. After all, I’m not sure whether it’s my quirk for needing that social convention, or hers for insisting on enjoying an uninterrupted stroll.

Now when I pass her I’m reminded of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, when the remaining humans have to keep their expressions to themselves to avoid being caught. My morning walk has been taken over by thoughts of pod people.

So, what’s a little offbeat in your neck of the woods?

Is It That Time, Already?

My daughter wants a new swimsuit. We were at the outlet mall, browsing. I pointed to an orange striped bikini that didn't look too revealing.

Me: How about this one?

Her: It’s okay for you, maybe.

Me: Honey, I think my bikini days are over.

Her: Nuh-uh. Have you seen the people on the beach? You’re skinny.

Me: That doesn’t mean I'd look okay in a bikini.

Her: What are you talking about? No one looks good in a bikini. Those days are gone!

I'm not sure if that’s good news or bad news. I’m going to eat another scoop of ice cream and think about it.

More On Vlad

There may have been a couple of unanswered questions about Vlad, the one-horned fuchsia-eating caterpillar. Here's a quick update:



Where is the caterpillar in this picture??

It turned out Vlad had already eaten his fill once he devoured the fuchsia in the garden. As soon as I added dirt to his jar, he burrowed right in. It would have been nice if he'd let me know he wasn't hungry before I snipped a few remaining leaves for him. Sheesh.

It was nice of him, though, to leave a little peep hole for us so we could see what he was up to:




It doesn't look like he's up to much, although melting down and transforming into a whole other creature is quite a feat. I've read that these guys sometimes stay underground all winter. But since it's only spring, I think it'll be more like 2 or 3 weeks.

My son was a little disappointed that he didn't get much of a chance to get to know Vlad as a caterpillar. Something tells me we may be repeating this little experiment...

I have to say, so far Vlad has been a lot less trouble than Swamp Thing.

Swamp Thing Returns

This is the story of a boy who went to sixth grade camp and had a blast. On the first day, a sparkling creek invited him for an invigorating (and fully-clothed) dip. That night the boy stuffed his sodden clothes into the extra plastic bag his mom provided. After five days he stuffed the plastic bag, more wet clothes, clean dry clothes (clearly superfluous), two damp towels, and a hunk of well-sanded manzanita wood into the suitcase.

Upon his return, his mother opened the suitcase and immediately detected a presence. Being invisible and having no sound, the presence can only be identified by a peculiar and specific funk. The boy’s mom recognized it to be none other than Swamp Thing.

After admiring the well-sanded hunk of manzanita, the boy’s mom tried to dispatch Swamp Thing by dumping the entire contents of the suitcase (including a handcrafted name badge and several pieces of sandpaper) into the washing machine. She turned the dial to ‘hot’ and glugged several seconds’ worth of ammonia over the clothes. She crossed her fingers. She might have said something like, “Holy cow, I hope there aren’t any dead animals in there.”

The boy’s mom had encountered Swamp Thing several years earlier. The boy’s parents entrusted a teenage girl to housesit while they were away. The teenage girl and her friends delighted in the use of a community pool and a linen closet stocked with fresh towels.

A day (or two?) before the family returned, the teenage girl tidied up by washing every towel the family owned (dish towels included) in two washer loads. For reasons unknown, her tidying efforts were interrupted. Marinating in the laundry room were one washer full of wet towels, and one dryer also full of wet towels.

The memories of that encounter with Swamp Thing were so distressful the boy’s mom couldn’t remember how she finally defeated the beast. She may have resorted to burning something. She hoped this time a hot water and ammonia bath would be enough. She washed and waited. In the days following, she retrieved load after load of laundry with no hint of the creature. Satisfied, she gave the hunk of well-sanded manzanita a little victory pat.

Weeks went by.

Then one morning the boy approached his mother before school.

“Mom, does this shirt smell weird to you?”

Against her better judgment, the boy’s mom took a whiff. “Is this one of the shirts you took to camp?”

The boy looked down and considered the Spiderman print. “Uh-huh.”

Yes, the boy had been to camp, had a blast, and brought home a little something extra. A highly resilient something extra. It’s on, Swamp Thing. It’s on.