Phineas likes to whine a lot. We joke that he’s trying to warn us, like Lassie calling for help.
He isn’t the brightest cat in the world, but he’s very sweet and cuddly. If the world were ending he isn’t the pet you’d look to for assistance or courage. He’s generally a ‘fraidy cat, scared by every odd noise. The ironing board and rustling plastic are among his deepest fears.
The other day, JC heard plaintive cries and went looking to see who was calling. Phineas was in the bedroom, mewling near the bed. The cries, however, were Lucy’s, and she was nowhere to be found. John kept looking for her to no avail—under the bed, in the dresser drawers—but no Lucy. Meanwhile, Phineas sat there, nose to the bed, crying with increasing distress. Finally, John looked at where the cat was staring and noticed a lump in the bed. Lucy had gotten herself underneath the mattress cover and slipped down to the foot of the bed, trapped inside the fitted sheet.
Granted, it was Lucy’s herself who drew attention to begin with, but I was proud of our little butterball, Phineas, for helping to rescue his sister.
Just moments ago, I heard Phineas whining in the hall. Again, he’s always doing this, so a little chirping is nothing unusual. But his cries became more insistent, and he finally got my attention. So I followed him down the hallway to our storage closet door. By this time, I knew what I would find: Lucy locked inside. She had slipped in behind me earlier this morning and hidden somewhere in the dark. This time, though, she was silent, not calling for human aid. It was Phineas who alerted his humans (“Timmy’s in the well!”).
I still don’t think Phineas will be any use during Armageddon. He’ll just run and hide if zombies or horsemen come knocking at our door. But where his sister’s curiosity gets her into these domestic scrapes, he seems adept at sounding the alarm. He does earn points for loyalty. We’ll have to start calling him “Lassie.”
Time for the annual camping trip and costume night. Yes—a party in the woods!
This year’s theme was “The 1930s,” and we decided to eschew the high/low living Glamour/Depression outfits from the era. It turned out that most of the attendees did one or the other: grubby down-and-outer or high-society one-percenter, so I am not sorry we went in another direction. Instead, I looked up inventions and discoveries of the decade. We settled on “The First Canned Beer” (c. 1935), and Pluto, which was discovered and proclaimed a new planet in 1930. Ah, how times change.
Scotch Tape was my runner-up choice, but I figured Pluto had more nostalgic, underdog appeal. So the plan was to make a big sandwichboard costume of the planet, with a solar-system hat and hair of the era.
The hat seemed to be the most time-consuming part, so I began with that:
First, I gathered together balls of approximately relative sizes. This was the closest I could get on scaling. Mercury really would have been teeny otherwise. But the four terrestrials are relatively correct, as are the other four. The smallest ones are wood, and the larger ones styrofoam.
I rigged up this drying rack with a scrap of wood, some nails and hot glue to hold the nail down.
Then I spent the next couple of sessions layering paint on the different planets.
Earth has a lot of detail that I wasn’t able to capture well here and both Mercury and Mars have lovely metallic textures that would never be visible in a photo, but I think Jupiter is my favorite. Here’s how they all laid out on the table, with distance to scale.
I had to compress the distances for hat-making purposes. This is headgear, afterall.
I cut doweling to length, painted it black, and glued it into the planets and fascinator sun. This took several steps (and a lot of patience) to plot the right locations in a test-sun first, running off to a mirror, rearranging and cutting the dowels … I also had to figure out how it was going to stay on my head, which involved gluing a comb into the sun and adding a neck strap for security. It all came together, but if I were to do this again, I’d probably find a pre-fab fascinator base and use that. I had to weigh down the sun while everything dried.
Next up was painting Pluto. I cut out two circles from half-inch-thick black-foam board and sprayed them with green and gold spray paint. This was actually the most expensive part of the costume (foam and one can of paint), as well as the quickest. I think I cut and painted both panels painted in less than half an hour.
I glued fabric straps to each planet half to create the sandwichboard. This required help to measure the positioning.
I added a beauty-pageant element to my costume, both to explain it a little (Pluto: Miss New Planet 1930) and because I had to wear a dress under the sandwichboard. The sash was done by typing out the letters in Word, printing the words to scale on paper, tracing that onto the sash, and then gluing glitter to the lettering. This takes a while, but it looks nice. It’s also messy. Don’t do this anywhere you aren’t prepared to see sparkle for eternity.
A generous friend finger-waved my hair.
Here’s how the hat came out.
And here’s the full costume, along with JC’s. I made a little dress out of an old curtain; it really wasn’t the main element, but I couldn’t be naked. That also took a while, and you could easily wear something else. I just happened to have the fabric, so it was a free (if time-consuming) solution. I also had the shoes on hand, which helped keep a ’30s feel.