Dem Dirty Birds

Thought for the day:  Growing up, my mother always claimed to feel bad when a bird would slam head-first into our living room window. If she really felt bad, though, she'd have moved the bird feeder outside.  [Rich Johnson]

It's September! Can you believe it? All the kids are back in school, and autumn will be getting its official by-the-calendar start later this month. Georgia's thermometers will probably still be flirting with the ninety-degree mark for a while longer, but at least we have hope that cooler temperatures are on the horizon. Change is coming. And sometimes, change is good.

For me, it's gonna be time to start cheering on our Dirty Birds (AKA the Atlanta Falcons) and to stop grumbling about dem other dirty birds.

In general, I love birds. I really do. Love their songs, love their brilliant colors, love to watch them. But for some reason, they've reeeeally had it in for me this year.

Or to be more specific, they've had it in for my car.

There is an unseen force which lets birds know when you've just washed your car.  [Denis Norden]

Now, I've had my little red car since 1999, and while birds have been known to dive-bomb it quite a bit in the past, it's been downright ridiculous this summer. Totally out of control.

Have I done something to offend the little feathered darlings? Perhaps my singing as I went outside to fetch the morning newspaper literally annoyed the crap out of them?

I dunno, but the truth of the matter is, birds from miles around selected my poor little red car as their potty of choice this summer. Mind you, there are two other vehicles sitting in our front yard which they largely ignored. Think the color red attracted them? Maybe, but Smarticus' big ol' pick-up... a much larger target... is also red. What can I say? For whatever reason, the birds obviously voted to use MY car as their outhouse. Copiously, and often.

Not haphazardly, either. Not like that car in the picture. No, one after another, they perched on my side mirrors and let 'er rip all down the sides of my car. Over and over and over again. And not that I'm begrudging Smarticus his relatively clean truck or anything, but I don't get it. I mean, the side mirrors on his pick-up are almost twice the size as the ones on my car, so the darling birds could've sat on them in luxurious comfort, enjoyed a little chat about the weather, and pooped two at a time.

I had to hold it for two days!!!

It didn't do much good to clean it off, either, because twenty minutes after I got rid of the mess, it was right back again. What can I say? Dem dirty birds decided my car was their loo of choice, and I was stuck with it.

Carols of gladness ring from every tree.  [Frances Anne Kemble]

Yeah, carols. I swear, when we had the audacity to go away in my car... their toilet... for a few days this summer, an army of squawking birds was waiting when we got back. A whole slew of angry birds was lined up across the yard, squirming and fidgeting from foot to foot, with little bird newspapers tucked under their wings. Glaring at me, and telling me what for. Believe me, they didn't waste any time at all in using their facilities, either. Some of them didn't even wait to get a comfy mirror seat; they just flew overhead and let loose.

Tell ya what, it was a regular blitzkrieg. They weren't nearly as polite and well-disciplined as our neighborhood dogs, either.

Oh well. As the summer waned, the birds became less possessive of my poor little car. Maybe that's because most of the baby birds (the most grievous offenders) have grown up and moved on to some other bathroom facility. My car is grateful, and so am I.

But there are still plenty of birds around.... in my yard, and in yours, too. So beware. Not all birds are as eagle-eyed as others, so they just might mistake your head for a little red car.

How about you? Do birds have an affinity for your car, too? I would have taken a picture of my poop-covered car for ya, but (Woo HOO!) we've been having a lot of rain lately. I guess you could say our feathered friends have flush toilets now, and my car is cleaner than it's been all summer.

So now as the season prepares to change, I'm gonna stop worrying about all dem dirty birds who've been having their way with my car, and start thinking about what kinda season our (RAH! RAH!) Dirty Birds are gonna have. And one thing's for sure. No matter how well or poorly the Falcons do, they NEVER poop on my car.

And you didn't believe me last week when I said this week's post was gonna be about bird poop, did ya? Well, actually, if you think about it, it has a much deeper meaning. It's really a simple depiction of the socioeconomic changes in... Nah! Who am I kidding? It's about poop.



                                        Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Innocent Fun, or Foul Play?

Thought for the day:  The game of life is a lot like football. You have to tackle your problems, block your fears, and score your points when you get the opportunity. [Lewis Grizzard]

[morguefile]

Lewis Grizzard scored some good points of his own with that witty quote. There's a lot of truth in it, but I think the analogy can only be taken so far. When people try to force the whole life is like a football game comparison beyond a certain point, someone may have to step forward, blow the whistle, and call a penalty on the play.

I'll tell you all about it in a minute, and let you be the judge, but first? A step back onto Memory Lane, if you will... to the days when we were all (gasp!) teenagers.

[morguefile]

Recognize this stuff? Anybody else remember hanging rolls of crepe paper across the ceiling of a knotty pine-paneled basement with your friends the day before a party? Our favorite trick was to twist two different colors together for an extra special touch of sophistication. (That's what we thought at the time, anyway.) As the evening wore on, the streamers would inevitably stretch and sag, until they literally brushed the tops of our heads while we danced. That didn't stop us from stringing them up for the next party, though. It was part of our thing. 

[morguefile]

Matter of fact, it was so much a part of our thing, we even used them to decorate the school gym for our junior and senior proms.

You know what? As all-important as they seemed at the time, I honestly don't remember much about our proms. (And NO, the fruit punch wasn't laced!) Do you? One thing I do remember is how stressed a lot of the girls got ahead of time, because they were worried sick that no one would invite them. I dunno. Maybe the guys were stressed too, and worried about being rejected?

[morguefile]

But let's face it, it's traditionally been females who place so much importance on events like proms. It's their time to shine. To feel as pretty as a princess. To feel special. As much as proms have mutated from the days when my friends and I danced under crepe paper streamers to records played in the high school gym, I think today's girls dream just as wistfully about their proms. They still want to shine, to feel as pretty as a princess, and to feel special.

[morguefile]

So what happens when teenage boys treat a prom like it's another extension of football? What if they rent a fancy venue, huddle there in their suits and ties...

[wikimedia commons]

and go through an NFL-like draft pick process to decide who to invite to the prom? I introduce you to... the prom draft.

I kid you not.

For an undetermined number of years, that's exactly how some... but not all... boys at Corona del Mar High School in Newport Beach, California have been selecting their prom dates. Based on draft pick number, which is determined by drawing either a lottery-like ball or numbered slip of paper, the boys take turns selecting their dates from the previously-ranked favored pool of girls.  In keeping with NFL draft rules, boys also have the option of  forking over money in exchange for a more favorable draft pick. This year, one boy allegedly paid one hundred and forty bucks for the privilege of picking the higher-ranked gal of his dreams. (They'd never even spoken to each other before! Do you think she accepted...?) The whole procedure is done with much hoopla and fanfare, and they even go so far as to report draft pick results via Twitter. Nothing more humiliating than being selected last... unless it's having that information disseminated to all your twitter-pated friends, eh?

When I read about this in the newspaper, I got to wondering. What criteria do you think the boys use in  those girl-ranking sessions of theirs?

[seniorark]

Intelligence, kindness, and a good sense of humor, maybe?

Maybe...

On the other hand, the ranking might have gone something like this:

"When Mary Lou walks, she has a mighty fine backfield in motion. I think that merits a decent number, don't you?"

"Nah, she follows a strict blocking below the waist policy. Nothing happening above the waist, either. She's good to look at, but doesn't go in for any holding at all."

"I agree," another stud muffin added. "She's a stickler for pass interference. She's been known to rough the passer upon occasion, and gave one guy a shiner for a little innocent illegal use of hands."

"Oh, man, I had no idea. That makes her a strike out, as far as I'm concerned."

"Dude! Wrong sport! Get with the program."

"Oh, right, sorry. My bad. Okay, a low number it is. Besides, I heard she's never on time. Nothing I hate worse than having to put up with a delay of game..."
*****

Okay, so I have no idea how those sessions really went. But word has it, there may not be any more prom drafts in future years. The school's principal... a woman... found out about this year's draft, and wasn't any too happy about it. You could say she stepped in, blew the whistle, and called a penalty on the practice. Even threatened to cancel this year's prom. Whether she did or not, I don't know, but now some school board members are talking about instituting mandatory ethics classes to teach students what was wrong with this whole draft scenario in the first place.

What do you think about those prom drafts? Innocent fun... or insensitive, and highly insulting to females?  Did you go to your prom? Remember much about it? I remember I had a lot of good clean fun, and maybe that's enough. I don't think I would've appreciated being entered in some juvenile draft for the entertainment of the boys in our class, though. (Unless, of course, I was ranked number one... HA!)

                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.


On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; no sleep until morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.  [Lord Byron]

It wasn't that no one asked me to the prom, it was that no one would tell me where it was. [Rita Rudner]

Sunny Daze and Falling Leaves

 Thought for the day:  I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree... (yada, yada, yada)
[Joyce Kilmer]

Yeah, I love trees, too. Some of them are sooooo beautiful and majestic, and without a doubt, the shade they provide in the hot summertime is definitely welcomed and appreciated. But, this time of year? Not so much.

The first time I drag the rake out is downright enjoyable. Almost. Starts out that way, anyhow. Then the bugs start biting, and the miserable &*^%$ gnats start buzzing around my head, and make me feel like Schultz's dirty kid Pigpen. Then comes a pain here and an ache there, followed by a dry mouth, sneezing, and a runny nose. (And that's only five minutes into the job.) Next morning? Darned if the inconsiderate rat bastard leaves aren't ankle-deep all over again.

Know what? If I work hard enough at it, maybe I can forget about the exercise, and learn to ignore the leaves, no matter how deep they get. Like the cat in this picture. And like  the cat I'm married to. (Smarticus thinks raking leaves is a monumental waste of time.)

On the other hand, I miss these trees. Palms. The kind we saw when we visited our family in Florida. This picture doesn't begin to do them justice, though. They looked so cool silhouetted against the dark sky and full moon. (And bonus! Nobody has to rake up after them, either.)

And I miss these trees, dripping with Spanish moss. (And okay, dripping with quarter-sized banana spiders, too, but hush... I'm on a roll.) Dramatic looking trees, aren't they? Just loverly...

(Just in case you've never seen a banana spider...)









To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind having to rake up all the leaves in our yard if our trees had the decency to put on a nice technicolor show for us first. Nope, not this year. This year, it's brown... then down. (and down and down and down...) Heck, some of the leaves are committing suicide while they're still green. Then they just lay on the ground, shriveling up into crunchy skeletal remains. No breath-taking color. No slow strip tease of leaves. Just big ol' dumps of brown (and green) leaves. (sigh)

Okay, I'll admit it. It isn't the leaf-raking that's turning me into a kvetching ol' fartessa. And it isn't really the Florida trees... or heat... or bugs... I miss.

It's the kids I miss. (Although the kid with the beard came home with me.)

Princess Olivia is a little Southern belle.

                                                                             

Three-month-old Atlas is a real heart-stealer.

                                       

He sure stole mine.

And big sister Jordan's.

                                 

And grandpa's.

Even big brother Josh thinks it's pretty neat to have another dude around.

I'll tell you about some of the things Smartacus and I did while we were in Florida... next time. But before I go, let me ask you. Do you rake leaves, or do you let nature... or possibly a lawn mower... take care of them for you? (Sometimes, I wonder if I'm the last person in North America who still uses an old-fashioned rake instead of one of those noisy annoying leaf blowers.)

Oh yeah, Don't forget. You know what tomorrow is in the U.S., don't ya?

Don't forget to vote! If you don't vote, you can't kvetch about who wins the election.

Oh, wait! One more thing. Have any of you been experiencing difficulty changing your header picture? I go through all the usual steps, but the old picture is... still there. ( I really *need* to change the header to the yam with the Falcons banner before the team loses all chances of winning a couple more games this season. They (ahem) obviously *need* my support...)

Atlas dressed as a football. But don't worry. There were no spiral passes or spiking involved.

Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Kicking a Few Things Around

Thought for the day:  In football, everything is complicated by the presence of the opposite team.  [Jean-Paul Sartre]

Okay, so granted, Sartre was probably talking about that other kind of football, the one we Americans call soccer, but it's still a nifty quote. And although soccer is a nifty game, we're not gonna talk about it today. Nope, we're gonna kick around some stuff about American football.

You a football fan? We're rabid avid Falcons fans. Our kids and grandkids, too. See? Even though they live in Florida, our younger son and his baby boy were all decked out in style to watch the Falcons play this past Sunday. (Too bad da Birds didn't win. Wait 'til next week, though!)


RAH! RAH! Now that football season has started, I figured I'd blatantly seize the opportunity to explain a couple football happenings from my novel Hot Flashes and Cold Lemonade. (Aw, crap, she's talking about her damned book again.)

NO, no, now wait. Hold on. I'm not pimping my book. A couple readers questioned these two items is all, so I thought I'd remind y'all that I wrote a book address them here. You might even find it interesting.

Characters MaryBeth and Willie go to a Washington Redskins game, and a reader from Baltimore wanted to know why the heck they didn't go to a Baltimore Ravens game, fuh cryin' out loud.

Well, Baltimore's in love with the Ravens now, but that wasn't always the case. Its first love was the Colts, who played there from 1953 until 1983, when they slunk out of town under cover of darkness to move to Indianapolis. After that infamous departure, many locals threw their heart-broken support to the Redskins. Our story takes place in the late '90s, and although the Ravens started playing in Baltimore in '97, some fans were reticent about supporting the newbies, so they stuck with the Redskins for a while. Ergo, MaryBeth and Willie went to a Redskins game. (Plus, I had an ulterior motive for getting them on the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.)

Big Georgette and Boss Hog

Much to my surprise, the other question came from my very own Smarticus. He wanted to know what the deal was about them wearing pig snouts at the game. (Oh, like that's any dumber than fans wearing a big block of cheese on their heads?)

Anyhow, in the 1980s, the 'Skins offensive line was... how shall I put this... large. Very large, as in super-sized. Their coach Joe Bugel called them... the hogs. (Ah-HA!)

Yep, so beginning in 1983, twelve male 'Skins fans... dubbed the Hogettes...  started donning dresses and pig snouts to every game to cheer on their team. (They also raised a considerable amount of money for charity.)

When this iconic group retired in 2012, it had twelve active members and fifteen former ones. Three were inducted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame as part of the VISA Hall of Fans. (I'll betcha the hall has inducted at least one cheesehead, too.)

Bottom line? This group started wearing snouts in honor of the original hogs of the early '80s, and other fans quickly followed suit. ( No telling how many of the fans who wear them to games today know why they wear them, but now... you do.)

With a new season underway, football fans are... floating on air.

Hey! How's about some football funnies? Believe it or not, these are actual quotes:

• Joe Theisman- Nobody in football should be called a genius. A genius is a guy like Norman Einstein. (Um, yeah. Good ol'... Norman.)
• Torrin Polk- (talking about his coach) He treats us like men. He lets us wear earrings. (Heck, why not? Joe Namath wore pantyhose.)
• George Rogers- I want to rush for 1000 or 1500 yards, whichever comes first. (I'm thinking this guy probably wasn't a math major.)
• Bill Peterson- (former Oilers coach) You guys line up alphabetically by height. Peterson also gets credit for this one: Men, I want you just thinking of one word all season. One word and one word only: Super Bowl. (Math wasn't his strong suit, either.)
• Dick Butkus- I wouldn't ever set out to hurt anyone deliberately unless it was important — like a league game. (Aren't all NFL games league games?)
• William Perry- I've been big ever since I was little. (And he was, too! AKA Refrigerator, Perry was 200 pounds at the age of eleven!)
• Jerry Rice- I feel like I'm the best, but you're not going to get me to say that. (No, of course not.)
• Thomas Henderson- (referring to Terry Bradshaw) He couldn't spell cat if you spotted him the C and the T. (Now that's just mean.)
• Joe Namath- I don't know if I prefer Astroturf to grass. I never smoked Astroturf. (He probably couldn't get it to light.)
• John Elway- I normally run the 40-yard dash in 4.9, but when a 280-pound guy is chasing me, I run it in 4.6. (Darned good incentive to step it up a bit, I'd say.)

*****

                                               Half-pint footballers pull off quite a trick:

                                    Here's a little something for you fans of that other football.

                                                                       ( Happy?)

                                    Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.

Football is like life— it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, sacrifice, dedication, and respect for authority.  [Vince Lombardi]

Football is the ballet of the masses.  [Dmitri Shostakovich]

I like football. I find it's an exciting strategic game. It's a great way to avoid conversation with your family on Thanksgiving.  [Craig Ferguson]