Tuesday, April 7, 2009


There is a turf war going on in my neighborhood, but it's not between the Jets and the Sharks or even the Crips and the Bloods. It's much more serious. Feathers are flying, people.

It seems that the Chickadee that started moving into the birdhouse in our yard is having a property dispute with a Sparrow. The Chickadee, who was moving in first and would seem to have ownership is fighting fiercely, but it seems to be an uphill battle. The Sparrow is squatting. It's totally not the Sparrow's house, but he's moving in anyway.

I've been watching the battle through my kitchen window over the last few days. Both birds are working furiously to gather materials and build their nests. The Chickadee will arrive with a few choice pieces of dry grass, look about alertly and then hop from branch to branch, finally depositing his treasure in the birdhouse. Then he'll fly away for more.

Meanwhile, Squatter, the Sparrow arrives with his twigs and boldly enters the birdhouse. Then he pokes his head out only to encounter a hopping mad Chickadee who twitters and flits wildly about Squatter's head. Squatter blithely ignores the smaller bird and takes his time coming out. Then they both fly away to gather more nesting supplies and it starts all over again.

I don't know who will win. Pick a side and let me know who you think will come out on top in The Battle of the Birdhouse. Stay tuned, I'll let you know the outcome.


Mary is in school this week. What's that noise? Oh, I know--silence! My eardrums are jumping up and down. (What, don't your eardrums jump?)


My comments are still broken and I am wildly frustrated. GGGAAHHHH!!!


Tilly is going in to the groomers tomorrow for a bath and nail trimming. Normally, I give her a bath, but since we are visiting family for Easter, I decided that she needed to smell better than she does when I'm done bathing her.

When I'm done giving her a bath she smells like clean, wet dog. After she dries, she smells like clean dog. Now, that's fine because she is, after all, a dog. But when she gets a bath from the groomers, she smells like raspberries! And nothing says "Hello! Happy Easter!" like a dog who smells like raspberries, right? Plus, she gets a bandanna around her neck, so you know--that's her new Easter Outfit.


I am my father's liquor supplier. He drinks Three Buck Chuck from Trader Joe's. He doesn't have a Trader Joe's near where he lives--one of the trade-offs of small town living--so unless he wants to drive to St. Louis, Chicago or Indy, he relies on me to bring him his fix. Yes, I am an enabler.

I just made my father sound really bad in that last paragraph. Not my intention, I assure you. His cases of wine last a very long time. MUCH longer than they would around here, probably. He drinks one glass a day and someday, I want to be just like him, because he has his glass at about 3 in the afternoon. That's school dismissal time around here. Which is EXACTLY the time I would enjoy a glass of wine. I refrain, however, because I am a Responsible Parent of Young Children. Sigh...I need to retire.

Yesterday as I was out running errands my cell phone rang and it showed my dad's number. My dad isn't a big conversationalist on the phone. My mother and I talk every day. Occasionally, my dad will get on the phone and say hello and find out what's going on--usually when my mom hands him the phone and tells him to talk. So when my dad's number registers on my phone, it's either to tell me that someone is ailing or dying, or he wants me to pick up his booze.

It's okay. He shows his love for me in other ways. Plus, I know he's really good about sharing. Get me a trough ready, daddy, I'll be seeing you soon.


How did this house go from neat and clean on Saturday to the Pit of Despair today? The children that live here are undisciplined slobs. My real children (you know, the ones I was having before I actually had children--those perfect little figments of my imagination) are neat and clean and pick up after themselves and never sass me. I wonder if those children are looking for me. If you see them, would you tell them I'm looking for them too?

I'll be right here. Under this pile of dirty laundry.

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