Finch War Wednesday

Oh, hi there.

Got thistle?

One day not too long ago, I told Annie all about the wonders of my goldfinch feeders.  I even accompanied her to the bird store to show her what to get.

Then she talked Jules into it, too.

We were all excited about it.

Giddy, actually.

Now we are all at war.

The War for Goldfinch Love.

I was feeling lots of the love.

I was the popular girl.

The birds always wanted to be with me.

Now, not so much.

I think they're spiking the seeds around the corner with a little something special to attract all the birds.

Some sort of Goldfinch Nip if you will.

Cheaters.

But, the birds are starting to come back to their favorite place:

Chez Mental Mama.

~~~

What's that you say Annie?

Don't take your picture?

What?

Huh?

I can't hear you.

La La La La La La

Mama's Musings

How much weight can you subtract when you weigh yourself right out of the shower?  I mean, like, how much does chin-length wet hair weigh?

Exercising is dangerous.  Have you ever cut a finger on that plastic thingy on a shoelace?  Sucker hurts. Does that plastic thingy have a real name?

Do cars not come with blinkers any more? Gah.

Has anyone heard anything about this Tylenol PM for Menopause?

I'm not kidding.  How did we survive without it?

Would someone please explain Dennis Rodman to me?  I just don't get it.

A Flashback

Last night, Squazz and I had dinner at the beautiful home of one of my oldest friends, her husband and their amazing triplets (one of whom happens to be my godson).  Miss Hower and I were suitemates in college, and, as a result, have many tales to tell.  

One that we both remember fondly is that we had a composition class together that was taught by the most provincial man I have ever encountered.  He rued the fact that we didn't have to wear the lay-type gowns like the students at Oxford.  So, instead the boys were required to wear a tie and we girls had to wear a dress.  To his class. Every Tuesday and Thursday.

Oh, and he rarely gave anyone a B.  So you could pretty much forget about an A.  Miss Hower and I, being the naive brave young ladies we were, forged ahead with this lovely exercise, and in spite of the odds, turned in what we thought were some amazing papers.  All came back with a nice big C on the top.  If my memory serves me correctly, I believe he used a red magic marker.

Fast forward to a balmy spring evening.  Miss Hower and Miss Ives are preparing to write their papers on Robert Frost's "The Mending Wall" which are due the following morning.  We have done nothing and it is about 11 pm.  Mind you, dear reader, this was back in the day when we had to type our papers.  With footnotes. On a typewriter.

We decided first that we would prepare to write.  We juiced up on coffee.  Plotted and planned.  We drank more coffee.  And then we poured all our energy and creativity into a masterpiece.

A voodoo doll that would take care of Professor Weatherby and all our woes.  We spent a good part of the early morning hours crafting this sucker.  And boy, were we pleased.  We did all sorts of horrible things to that doll, and I don't know what time it was when we finally tossed it out the window, turned to our IBM Selectrics, and wrote some sort of drivel.  Then we showered, put on our skirts and went to class.  We got B's.  Go figure.

Oh, and Professor Weatherby?  I'd like you to know that Miss Hower has written a screenplay that is about to become a fantastic movie.  And she wears jeans.

Peace

"Arise, my love, and come away;

For now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone.

The flowers appear in our land;

The time of pruning has come,

And the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land."

Alleluia.

--Song of Solomon

A Message for Annie

Maybe the South Beach Diet would work better if you sold your house and moved away.

But, please don't. I would miss you oh so much.   Oh, by the way...mint juleps at 4.

Happy Derby Day Everyone!

Animal House

Lately, I have been pining for a new puppy (hormones?), and every time I see one at PetRescue.com, I dutifully show it to Squazz.  He's not buying it.  He came in to this family never having had a dog--only cats.  He obviously knew we had animals (cat, parrot, dog), and he has risen to the task.  We are lucky he joined in on all the crap fun.  When our beloved Bichon Boomer died of cancer, he was right there to help us through our profound sorrow.  And even though the kids and I went and adopted Dora while he was, literally, on the golf course (we were supposedly "viewing" the puppy at the shelter), he has loved her from first sight.

Since I caught a whole bunch of crap from the original Baby Bird about yesterday's post, I thought I'd capitalize on  write about my other babies.  Oh, and those of you who don't like the anthropomorphizing of animals? Yeah, I'd just skip the rest of this.

In a few hours' time on Tuesday, here's what we said and did chez mental mama:

Me:  Squazz, why aren't you sitting on the sofa?

Squazz (who always sits on this sofa):  No room.

Me (noticing empty bird cage):  Dora, where's Cupid.?

Dora cocked her head under table with, I kid you not, exasperation: There's your stupid bird. Idiot.

 

Bird-on-the-go

Augie: Goose, Dora's sleeping with me tonight.

Me: No!  She needs her mommy! She wants to sleep with her mommy.

Augie: But it's my turn.

Me: No!

Augie: Yes!

Me: Okay, let's let her decide. (send help, now)

*gah

Me:  Squazz, we're out of wine! Squazz?  Squazz, where did you go?

Proud Mama

Baby Bird

Your father and I are so very proud of you.

And we have no idea where this comes from.

Because we were always just: Thank You, Laude.