Do you have a monster that lives in your luggage? I do.
One of the unexpected surprises of not traveling very often is opening up an extra suitcase to see what's been stored in there. My mom used to make these monsters in the late '70s. I think this one was given to my grandmother. I forgot I had him. He deserves to live on my bed-- or under it if that's his preference.
"A heavy numbness seized her limbs, thin bark closed over her breast,
her hair turned into leaves, her arms into branches, her feet so swift
a moment ago stuck fast in slow-growing roots, her face was lost in the
canopy. Only her shining beauty was left." --The Metamorphoses
My sister wrote a blog entry about our mom yesterday as a Mother's Day present. Our mom was thrilled. The lesson I learned, never underestimate how much mom likes to read/see/hear about herself.
Here's one of the pictures my sister put on her blog. I've cleaned it up slightly. Look at that multicolored shag carpet, the drab drapes the redwood built-in. The 1970s were a magical era and not just for home decor-- check out my mom's hair. Stylish!
Clockwise from the top left: Liz, DeWayne, Eric (me) and Melissa.
Who ever wrote this should find a nice homeless man to date.
Sometimes I find myself looking at a vagabond, sitting in a pile of his own filth, scratching at the lice infesting his beard and I think to myself I should take him home, douse him with some RID, comb out the nits and give him a good scrubbing. Make him mine. Because I obviously equate homeless people with alley cats and tramp-like dogs.
It's when I am about to say something to the homeless guy that I think of movies like "Down and Out in Beverly Hills" and realize I don't want to end up with a Nick Nolte.