Artsplosion, Ideas and Tees, Oh My!

For a person who often feels like I really don't do anything, it sure appears as if I've been very busy! Over the weekend, I was tackling the Amazon rainforest that was my backyard, transforming it from a home to lost 1930s adventurers and junglemen swinging from vines, to a reasonably tame Secret Garden.

I'm pleased with the results-- the evicted anaconda and piranha, less so. Plus, George Challenger's served me with cease and desist papers and Tarzan's been picketing. So there's that to deal with.

But, while I was scything back the underbrush, it gave me plenty of time to think about scenes for the last book in my There Goes the Galaxy trilogy, Tryfling Matters. I'm about 100 manuscript pages in and I know where I want it to end, but I'm plotting out the structure for a strong, fun middle. You know the kind; if it were a person, it would be a middle with good abs.

In the evenings, to help keep the creativity going, I've been doing a lot of drawing. Some have been illustrations from scenes from my first two books. And some of it has been whatever's popped in mind. 

You can see above, I attempted David Tennant as the Tenth Doctor of Doctor Who last night. I thought he turned out pretty Tennanty, but I've since been informed that he looks like: 1.) Harrison Ford 2.) both Japanese AND Korean 3.) His nose is wibbly-wobbly. (I imagine that last one is because it's half-stuck in another dimension. The TARDIS is clearly rough on the sinuses.)

So I'm glad I was set straight on all that. :)

I also decided to try my hand at ol' Captain Jack Sparrow.

I had to try to draw one of my favorite superheroes from childhood, Batgirl...

(The book she's reading is "Work-Life Balance.")

I did another couple of doodles based on There Goes the Galaxy characters... Bertram and Rollie in the Shop-o-Drome on Golgi-Beta from the first book...

And a Charlie's Angels spoof of Tseethe, Fess and Rollie, all characters from my Intergalactic Underworld. There's no slight intended in making Kate Jackson's character a squidoid, by the way. That's just Fess. :)

I did a few Alice in Wonderland doodles using a steampunk theme. This is Alice searching for the Jabberwock with her Vorpal Sword...

And her companion, the Cheshire Clock, all by himself in a paper umbrella tree.

I tried a more traditional Alice down the rabbit hole, really testing out that gravity...

And one of my favorites, the White Rabbit, chillaxing there in his favorite chair...

Here is a different version of the Queen of Hearts I attempted... I wanted her to be less Queen Elizabeth or Queen Victoria influenced and more Scarlett O'Hara, for a change...

And this was followed by a drawing of The White Queen, which turned out kind of creepy and intense. I was going for a little Galadriel and Joan of Arc...

An investment in some monochrome grey markers had me try a little Dorothy in Kansas action...

And I thought I'd do one in color as well.

Because I had some folks on social media forums request it, I've posted a few of these and some other ones as small posters in a Zazzle shop. I have those there along with some t-shirt designs based on the There Goes the Galaxy stories. Folks who have read the books will understand the references. You can check them out here: 

http://www.zazzle.com/jennthorsondesigns*

So that's about it for me right now! This weekend, I plan to finish the rest of my book's metaphorical ab workout, and we'll see what else awaits. I probably should do something about Tarzan and his chimp buddies picketing outside my house. I've explained to him he doesn't have squatter's rights, but it's like talking to a brick wall.

The Legend of Fangy Pitchtail

The Jersey Devil has its pine barrens. The Loch Ness Monster has its Scottish aquatic tourism. And Fangy Pitchtail claims the weedy, second-tier, far-back of my residential yard.

Like ol' Nessie and Bigfoot, there is some reason to question our friend Fangy's existence. But where they have grainy non-credible portraiture, I have but one fleeting eyewitness moment to back it up.

I had always suspected there was something back there. When I first bought the property, the Way-Back of my tiny personal kingdom was a lush jungle of prickles, vines and National Geographic photographers.

So with the blind, zealous ambition of a new homeowner, I gathered machete and gloves and well-informed native guides and went about reforestation. The Nat Geo folks moved three backyards over to examine the fascinating suburban ecosystem of lawn bowling balls, bottle trees and other creative recycling. Things were looking up.

Soon, I had seven bags of creepers and stabbers and stick-to-your-socksers. But new information caused the glittering joy of a job-well-done to quickly lose its luster.

I could not stop focusing on a strange spherical hole, the size of a golfball, dug deep, deep, deep into the dirt.

It looked like something was living there. Something roughly the diameter of a very thick jungle vine.

Suddenly, I wondered if I was truly alone. And I wished I could go back to the days of solitude and a 75% less chance of slithering subterrainean guests.

Well, from then on I kept the place clear in only a half-hearted way. Just often enough so I wouldn't be labeled the local kook, the crazy lady with the Addams Family film set for her backyard.

When I did weed, I weeded while peering over my shoulder, questioning every rustle in the brush, every vine I grabbed...

A surprise grand entrance of a local cat lost me about three lives of my own, as my ragged nerves exploded in a personal landmine of limbs and heart palpitations.

Then there was the day a friend and I were chatting in the kitchen, and happened to peer out the back window into the yard.

It was only a moment, as these things tend to be. One second in time with no independent verification, no solid proof. But we both stopped dead in conversation as something large, long, sleek and black was spotted, just slipping over the top of the five-foot back fence.

"Er, maybe it was a cat," my friend told me, lying on cue as good friends tend to do in situations of discomforting backyard anaconda. "A black cat's tail. That's all. Just a cat."

"Sure," I agreed, knowing full-well a cat's tail does not taper like that. If that was a cat, it was a scaly mutant cat. That lived in a golf-ball-hole.

And that made the image of Fangy Pitchtail all the more, um, colorful.

So Spring is here, and the Way-Back yard needs to be weeded again. I know the probability is that my cold-blooded squatter is probably just a simple black snake, completely harmless and likely more afraid of the shrieking, edgy creature above than she is of it.

And perhaps Fangy isn't even there anymore. Perhaps he's relocated to the yard with the National Geographic photographers, helping document the local fauna and why anyone needs a wall artistically-constructed out of 100 empty Chlorox bottles.

But like those who doggedly pursue the fabled, the impossible, the mythic, I can't help but feel Fangy is still out there and waiting. Biding his time for that one big meeting. His ultimate chance to pose for a blurry shot on film.

The stuff of which kitschy souvenir t-shirts are made. I mean, a scaly mutant cat that lives in a golf-ball-hole could really make a killing.
Er, maybe I should rephrase.

Jenn Vs. the Giant Hogweed

Not long ago, the backyard was a peaceful English garden filled with roses, hydrangeas and a restrained modicum of plaster fat winged babies...

Then I blinked and somehow it turned into The Lost World.

I'm not precisely sure how it happened, but boy, it happened BIG. Vegetation had sprung up with stalks the diameter of soup cans. Vines like firehoses battled innocent rhododendrons. And Tarzan went swinging by with a yodel and a cheery wave.

"Yeah, hey, how's it hangin', jungle dude?"

So Sunday, I put on my pith helmet, loaded the boar rifle, grabbed a scythe and ventured out into the Back Four. It was better to have-at this before the neighbors started complaining. I mean, Tarzan's yells alone were likely keeping them up at night...

That man really projects.

Plants that looked like giant mutant strawberries-- only without, you know, the benefit of fruit-- had formed a united front in one area daring me to take them on.

In another area, towering prickly stalks had managed to nestle their way in between my true plants, in a sly effort at self-preservation. Once settled, they'd apparently spent time bullying the yard cherubs, punting one fat plaster God of Love to the side in a firm statement on lawn art.

To some it may have been fair dealings. To me, well, this meant war.

Down came the killer vines! Out went the mutant strawberries! "Timmmmmmm-berrrrr!!!" went the Giant Hogweed.

"Save the Rainforest" activists had lined up to protest, but after I showed them a map and assured them that we were actually in Western Pennsylvania and not along a tributary of the Amazon, they hung their heads in disappointment and shuffled along home.

After an hour or so, Tarzan was standing alongside me, blinking confusedly.

"Me just wondering... where vines go?" he queried.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to relcocate, pal," I told him. "You, the chimps and that lion of yours. You made a wrong turn somewhere."

The king of the jungle shook his head sadly. "Me totally bummed."

"Yeah, sorry," I said with a sympathetic shrug, and a pat of his muscular arm.

So this morning I put to the curb, in Hefty bags, Pennsylvania's first tropical rainforest. I mean, I know the chimps were pretty ticked off, but the lion is currently curled up on my front porch in the sun, tail flicking, paw curling contentedly.

I just hope he finds a new place to sun himself by the time the mailman comes. I'm expecting some stuff today.

Oh, and Tarzan? Well, you know, the thing is-- ol' Ralph of the Jungle may not be the brightest ape in the zoo but he does have a certain charm. So I set him up inside the house. He's in there right now testing the weight limit on my chandeliers, and enjoying a nice pitcher of mango iced tea.

As long as no one calls in a noise complaint about this mysterious yodeling, he should be just fine.

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The Insidious Submissive Fluffy Belly Enticement Snare- or- Pavlov's Human

"Gotcha!" The claws and fangs coming at my poor, slow fingers proved once again that felis domesticus was the far, far superior intellect in this situation.

For years, the fluffy black neighbor cat-- dubbed by me, without a molecule of creativity whatsoever, as "Miss Kitty" -- had been coming over to visit, and "help" me garden. In addition to sitting on my back porch and making herself really comfortable on my cushions (as captured in-the-act here), her other modus operandi was rubbing up against my legs, purring like a Craftsman chainsaw, and then rolling over at my feet...

There, she would begin her nefarious ploy.

Upturned to me would be this very furry and soft-looking stomach, her paws tilted demurely, compliant, waiting for an affectionate scratch from the human-type-person who I genuinely like to believe she called "friend."

And despite my better judgment-- despite consequences that had occurred time and time again-- despite the howling pain and sense of deep mortal shame-- despite all this....

I would find my hand unable to resist the tractor-beam pull of this insidious trap-- reaching with blind, renewed optimism each time, to give an affectionate scratch to that fur and--

SSSSHHIIIING!

CHOMP!

Miss Kitty would go all ninja on me-- whip out the kind of claws Freddy Krueger would be totally showing off to the other serial killers, latch on to my limb and try to sink her teeth into my loving hand.

In the time of our acquaintance I would say this whole scene happened, oh....

More times than Gary Coleman has said, "Whatchu talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

I would withdraw my hand in dumb shock and scold her, and Miss Kitty would look with wide yellow-green eyes, surprised that I hadn't been as overjoyed as she was with this particular portion of our visit. Then proceed to purr all over me again.

This was our friendship, and I took it. If I ever get married, apparently just chalk me up as a terrific candidate for future spousal abuse. I don't get it.

But over the winter some time, Miss Kitty (who I believe was a rather old dame, though a true lady never tells her age) seems to have passed away. No more did I hear her familiar greeting. No more did I get a bat of the pantleg while I pruned the roses. I missed her presence-- even the part of it with the nasty, big, pointy teeth.

So as I was out gardening this year, along came Gray Cat.

(I spent HOURS thinking up that name, I hope you all appreciate my efforts!)

And Gray Cat likes to help me garden...

(read: lay directly in any dirt I just raked)...

She likes to help me weed...

(read: stalks any vine I pull up and attacks it like she's a tiger, and it's a boa constrictor)

And Gray Cat also likes to lay down on the ground at my feet, exposing her furry belly.

What's more, SHE has a fully-operational tractor beam stomach, as well!

So, the first time she does this, I am at least AWARE of this very familiar and potentially painful experience. But, see, the tractor beam's on, and I am powerless--POWERLESS, I tell you!-- to stop myself.

So I reach down, twiddle my fingers in her velvety gray fur and... She grabs my hand with the soft pads of her paws...

And begins to lick my fingers.

I hadn't even been touching food or anything before this.

It's baffling.

And here's the thing-- while I certainly do miss Miss Kitty, Gray Cat is pretty quickly winning me over. I mean, sandpapery cat-tongue and all, I still think it's an upgrade on my past Human-Feline relations. At least from an injury standpoint.

Of course, she could just be luring me in with the gentle, loving pet routine, in preparation for something really big.

I imagine by the end of the month, Gray Cat and an entire feline hoard will have taken over the yard and I'll merely be a bipedal puppet in their devilish quest to take over the world.

This is how it starts, you know. So, um, in the coming weeks... if the blog begins to dwell overly on say, reviews of Meow Mix? Fund-raising for the ASPCA? And has a new streaming audio soundtrack from "Cats"? Please do me a favor and call the local cops to come check on me...

Tell them they're going to need catnip bombs and string.

Lots of string.

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Humor-blogs almost never needs a lint brush for all the shedding.

Shrub Wars, Ugly Betty and the Arch Nemesis

It seems when I'm out gardening, the number of people who want to talk to me is inversely proportional to how bad I look.

I swear, I could be out there in a ballgown and a tiara, sipping mint juleps and no one would say so much as a "good morning."

But if I'm in my yard for two seconds in my bag-lady mismatched clothes, my bangs in a barrette, glasses smeared with pollen, dirt on my elbows and my nose running, everyone in the neighborhood suddenly wants to stop by and discuss life, the universe and everything.

Thing is, when I get gardening and sporting the Ugly Betty look, I don't really WANT to talk to anyone. I get in the zone. And I need to be in the zone because my yard is fairly uneven and a missed step can mean rolling down the incline of the yard.

I imagine whole crowds would show up for a chat as that was happening.

I also tend to be unable to garden without injury. Why, one summer not so long ago, I set out to dig up and replace a couple of nuisance shrubs with something more ornamental, and I got so into working out the roots that I didn't notice the branch coming up and just missing my eye.

Can you imagine me driving myself to the hospital with no depth perception and explaining to the emergency room people the reason for my empty eyesocket was Puncture By Shrub?

"When Shrubs Attack--- Coming up next on The Discovery Channel!"

The irony being that "removing a shrub" is also one of the big keyphrases that seems to lead people to my home and garden blog.

The fact that people come there thinking they can learn shrub removal from a person who almost had to change her name to "Popeye," just goes to show that Search Engine Optimization isn't a perfect science.

And then, of course, there are the tasks that I try to take on myself that would be better left to the droves-- but the droves are strangely AWOL when they'd be truly helpful. Like the massive wrought-iron trellis I assembled last year.

It was in pieces to start with...

Lots of pieces...



And I spent the better part of an afternoon assembling all of the screws and nuts and putting Part A to Phlange B, etc.

All of this, I assembled flat out in my backyard with little problem, and I looked at my work with a smile of satisfaction...

Until I realized the arch needed to be standing upright.

The arch-- and I know this because the box said so-- weighed 150 pounds. It was also about seven foot tall.

The problem here is that your average five-foot eight female cannot LIFT an 150-pound, seven-foot-tall garden arch to a standing position. I mean, I know the ancient Egyptians built whole pyramids bringing giant blocks up slopes without a single piece of equipment made by John Deere....

And yes, the Celts dragged the stones of Stonehenge all the way from Wales in order to place them in the middle of a field in Salisbury because they hadn't invented the wristwatch yet.

But these ancient people were clearly a lot smarter than I am, and didn't get all cocky about Panel A and Phlange B.

Also, as my friend Greg pointed out, they had slave labor. Whereas I just had a few neighborhood squirrells laughing their fluffy tails off.

Well, a week later I was able to get a friend to help me right the darned garden arch. And let me tell you, TWO average females lifting that sucker was a huge improvement when it comes to Garden Arch Physics. What was my Arch Nemesis now is my Arc de Triumph.

So today, as I go out to garden, it will be interesting to see just what sort of injury awaits. Scratches or punctures, trapped under metal architectural structures... it's all up for grabs.

But if you were thinking of popping by, I'd recommend stopping to say "hello" at about 11am today. I should be rolling down the front hill about then. And don't worry, admission is free.


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Or you could also stop by and see my fellow bloggers at Humor-blogs. Unless, they're trapped under an 150-pound, seven-foot-tall garden arch, too.