What's life without whimsy?

Dr. Sheldon Cooper, The Big Bang Theory

This last weekend was a bit of a mixed bag. Saturday morning we had to skedaddle because we had a house showing scheduled. There is a great market up in Quechee, Vermont we like to visit, and it seemed as good a place as any to visit, so we decided to head up in that direction for a scenic drive. 

We passed through a few small towns in New Hampshire and Vermont along the way, stopping to visit antique stores and flea markets. New England is chock full of little historic towns with old brick buildings and cobblestone streets. I will miss the charm that fills the oldest region of the U.S. Though, as Kiddo pointed out in a moment of insight, some towns are rather sad. The industry that built them has left for one reason or another, and they seem like beautiful but empty shells. When you spend a bit of time in such places, you begin to feel the hollowness.

We picked up some snacks and veggies at the market and Kiddo decided his food must be eaten in the great outdoors. Not a picnic, his whims are rarely that specific, simply the consumption of food in the great outdoors. We found a quaint area on the other side a covered bridge where we could park and look at the river. Then the skies opened up. Not one to be easily dissuaded once a scenario is envisioned, Kiddo ate his bread outside. Under an umbrella thanks to the assistance of his old man. My husband is something special. Honestly. His patience seems to know no bounds and I want to squeeze him every moment of every day for it. After snacks were consumed and the rain had passed, Jared and Jack went for a run down the country lane. Mario pointed out that not one of Jack's four legs is touching the ground in the above photo. Natural athletes, that kid and his hound. There was Thai pasta salad that I could eat every day, and cheese curds that couldn't be resisted despite a lifelong sordid relationship with dairy. Squeaky cheese simply cannot be refused; but must be consumed in moderation. Mario found the remains in his glove box on the way to the airport on Monday. Oops. Good thing it's not summer?

There were Pyrex encounters and truffles and old records and first edition Harry Potter books (my collection of which is now complete). I have an ancient copy of Robert Louis Stevenson's A Child's Garden of Verses which was a fixture of my childhood, so this record was a happy discovery. On my flea market list: a self-contained record player, Pyrex (naturally), books from my childhood, and records. For when we find a player. I'm a fan of classic Disney stories which I maintain sound more authentic and capture one's attention better when played on vinyl.

I dug a previously unworn canvas owl print bag out of my closet and sported my usual Converse shoes. That combination, made complete by an in-hand cherry Icee, made me feel very teenybopper-ish. In a good way.

Although the landscape still reminds me of the movie Sleepy Hollow, spring has left some evidence of its arrival. Baby birds are everywhere. (The nest pictured above is in the wreath on the front door of Kiddo's schoolhouse.) On Sunday night, way past our bedtime, we discovered that a barn swallow had become convinced that the tiny ledge directly above our front door was a great place to nest. He (she?) showed total disregard for the fact that we are trying to sell the place. Bird poop and mud everywhere. Not to mention my fear of him flying into the house while we were trying to leave. I love nothing more than a nest of babes chirping outside our door, but this was a disaster. Mario and I went out to imagine some sort of deterrent when he flew right into my face, prompting a rather loud squeal followed by a scolding for nearly giving my man friend a heart attack. The bird came after me a second time, prompting another uncharacteristically damsel-in-distress squeal to escape my lips, only this time Husband was perched atop a step stool and nearly added a broken neck to the mix. The man puts up with a lot. I am happy to report that once the swallow was thwarted, the robin who owns a timeshare in the tree along our walkway has returned and laid some handsome blue eggs.

There was mind-blowing Mexican take-n-bake pizza, which will be missed upon our departure. Strawberries the size of my palm but not as sweet as they looked like they should be. There was also a watermelon I bought though Mario was steadfast in his conviction that it is too early for watermelon consumption. I dug in my heels, bought it, and proved him right. It was mushy around the edges so I was left to eat it. Only because I was determined to save face in some capacity; mushy edges be damned! I can't stop putting tulips in every vessel in our home and our cat sits like a man quite often. A commenter on Instagram noted that he looks pink in photos. It was in French, so I had to Google Translate what she was saying, but I got the gist. We don't dye him the color of cotton candy, he was just born that way. Oh, and did I mention that in a rare display of productivity, we cleaned out our dressers and closets? Kiddo tried on every shirt he owned in an attempt to show that he could still wear size 8 shirts. He can't. Unless he wants to look like George Michael during his Wham! days.

And here is another post displaying just how odd we really are. As if there wasn't enough evidence. Open book, right here. The laws of self-preservation dictate that we should at least try to act less whimsical. Oh, well.