Saturday, January 22, 2011
SUNDAY ADD-A-CAPTION GAME
Alright, you know the rules. (If you don't, check them in the category for "ADD-A-CAPTION-GAME" at right.) Feel free to add as many captions as you think will increase your brilliance. Good luck.
Crazy Thief Bird
The sledding hill studded with footprints from a few brave souls, the garden glittering, capped with domes of snow--it's bright with sunshine and frigid temperatures in the negatives this morning and climbing now to single digits. Inside, the kids are watching Saturday morning TV, Beatrix is on a chair watching Martin flip pancakes, and NPR is whining out some filler jazz.
Last night I had a wild dream about a bird who chased me around a hotel. I'd seen the bird--an orange-feathered, sharp-beaked, rather pretty, rather large avian--about to steal eggs from a little mama bird's nest. The entire tree was full of unattended nests just waiting for this orange thief to pilfer. I knew I was messing with nature, but before the defenseless eggs were broken and scattered, I rushed over and waved my arms at the orange bird. And then he turned on me. The remainder of that section of that dream was spent trying to shake the bird from around my feet, which he seemed to be obsessed in snapping up like worms.
My friend T, whom I like to call Sonya in my columns, would have known what to do. She would have taken care of the whole situation by whacking the crazy bird with a big flashlight--or she would have blown the crazy thing away, if it were dangerous, with buckshot, and then planted an acre of garden, put up ten bushels of cherries, whipped up a pancake and sausage breakfast for fourteen, mended her daughter's toys, and hung out a fresh load of laundry, all before heading off to work for the morning in the OR. It's her birthday today. That crazy country girl deserves a happy break. All the best, dear Sonya. You're wonderful.
Last night I had a wild dream about a bird who chased me around a hotel. I'd seen the bird--an orange-feathered, sharp-beaked, rather pretty, rather large avian--about to steal eggs from a little mama bird's nest. The entire tree was full of unattended nests just waiting for this orange thief to pilfer. I knew I was messing with nature, but before the defenseless eggs were broken and scattered, I rushed over and waved my arms at the orange bird. And then he turned on me. The remainder of that section of that dream was spent trying to shake the bird from around my feet, which he seemed to be obsessed in snapping up like worms.
My friend T, whom I like to call Sonya in my columns, would have known what to do. She would have taken care of the whole situation by whacking the crazy bird with a big flashlight--or she would have blown the crazy thing away, if it were dangerous, with buckshot, and then planted an acre of garden, put up ten bushels of cherries, whipped up a pancake and sausage breakfast for fourteen, mended her daughter's toys, and hung out a fresh load of laundry, all before heading off to work for the morning in the OR. It's her birthday today. That crazy country girl deserves a happy break. All the best, dear Sonya. You're wonderful.
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