Hilary Rosen vs. Sylvia the Bird

I may be a Mormon but I'm going to kick her ass.

I do not care much for Hilary Rosen.

You remember her. She's the snarkmeister who recently accused Anne Romney, who successfully raised five sons, of "never having worked a day in her life."

I did some half-assed research on her and read some things she'd written for the Huffington Post and while she has attained certain professional levels which I, admittedly, envy -- as in she gets paid for her writing -- I am not impressed.



Hilary, defending herself on cable news.



Ms. Rosen has attempted, in the most condescending way possible, to defend her statement but, to even whisper that an at-home mother doesn't "work" is unacceptable...and ludicrous.

It's no secret that raising a family is incredibly difficult. Plus, while you are on-duty 24/7, it is also a position without financial compensation.

Are there other pay-offs? Of course. But I am talking cash money here, people. Mama sometimes needs a new pair of sweatpants, after all.

I will not pretend to know who takes care of  Ms. Rosen's kids and that's not the point.  I am also well aware of the tough road faced by mothers who work outside the home but I'll bet that, throughout Ms. Rosen's career, she has gone out to a few nice lunches, strolled to the bathroom for a leisurely pee, and enjoyed a hot cup of coffee -- and, possibly, a bear claw -- at her desk.

At-home mothers frequently drink their coffee cold, get Play-doh in their hair and often are unsuccessful when attempting to schedule a time slot for a shower. They're not asking for special accolades but want you to know that what  they do is not only work but often grueling, disturbing and, at certain times, may or may not involve getting actual crap under their fingernails.

Sylvia

But I digress. Allow me to revisit Sylvia the Bird,  a robin who built a nest under my deck a few weeks ago.

Her eggs hatched this past weekend and, I can guarantee that Sylvia-- herself a stay-at-home mother of three to five, did not realize what she was getting herself into.

Sylvia may have thought that keeping her eggs warm was hard work. After all, you have to sit on them most of the time and this can be extremely limiting. Maybe she thought things would be easier once they hatched, imagining herself having a few minutes for a wing stretch or a relaxed mid-flight poop over the swing set.

I'd ask her if I could but Sylvia's life has changed since the kids have arrived and she's rarely around.

Apparently, all she does is search for worms and bugs to feed the babies. She is forever in the yard, pecking at the ground and, upon finding an nourishing morsel for the hungry beaks waiting at home, drops the stuff off and immediately returns to the search.

This goes on all day. Every day. There is no time for preening, dust baths in the sunshine or more than a quick sip of water from the birdbath.

Lunchtime for the Silverstones

And we all know what happens when those peeping fools reach maturity.

Unlike the insane Alicia Silverstone who prechews her baby's food and spits it into his mouth (ewwwwwwwwwwww), once the little ones fly the nest, Sylvia will not be able to go to a spa or have an expensive feather-lift so she can feel better about herself.

Chances are, unless Sylvia can resist that handsome fellow with the puffed out-chest and the large beak, it will all start again.

If Sylvia could say something to Hilary Rosen, it would not be pleasant. In fact, it might involve a bit of attempted eye-pecking.

I agree, wholeheartedly with Sylvia.

Walking in Heels...Or, Yet Another Reason to Feel Inadequate

Nifi the Cat (aka the mad Pooper) has not been feeling lately and the vet has an opening this morning so I will be unable to write a new post for today.

Nifi, normally a out-going love machine with a flair for the dramatic has been anti-social and very out of sorts...enough for me to be concerned. So, off we go.

In view of an article I just read about a new trend of plastic surgery so women can fit more comfortably into the towering high heels and platforms that are so popular today, I thought I'd repost a story about my own travails with high heels.

It appears that women are having "fillers' injected into their toe pads and the balls of their feet surgically altered to accommodate the current trend of six to eight inch heels. Great googly moogly is what I say to this. What's next girls? Why not bind your feet like they did in old China? Teeny tiny feet were considered very sexy then. Did you know that they also had their heels cut off, too?

Wake up, women of America. Don't you know it's all a plot to keep us down?

                                                  

We recently attended a wedding at which I bemoaned the concurrence of having a bad hair day with a social occasion where you would hope to look your best.

Well, people, it isn't just hair that's a problem. It's the shoes, too.

I was reminded of this while watching the morning news to see what fresh hell had been unleashed upon society (there was plenty),when the camera came in with a long shot on one of the anchors.

Dressed in a conservative turtle neck and slacks, her foot was exposed--and, upon it was a leopard print stiletto heel that looked as if the chorus of S&M singing Nazi hookers from the musical Cabaret might wear them. In other words, they were fabulous.

Yes, Nazi hookers.

It reawakened my bitterness over the shoes I have taken to wearing at special occasions.

It's all about the heels. I'm afraid I simply cannot walk in them.

I bought a new pair of shoes for weddings a while back. Accepting my lack of balance and ungainly lurching, I found a nice pair of sensible dress shoes. Low-ish heeled but not clunky, they work under skirts or the swish of chiffon pants and while they do not scream Nazi hookers, they do the job.

The point is I can walk in them and not create a one-woman floor show where I stumble and struggle from the ladies room back to my seat or, on a rare trip to the dance floor.

You know that trip--when the power-crazed MC says "Now ladies and gentlemen, if you wish happiness and good fortune to the newlyweds you must join them on the dance floor but if you wish them a lifetime of abject misery and hopeless despair, you will remain in your seats..."

No one dares remain seated for that. Not even 93 year old Aunt Edna who suffers from bunions, vertigo and must drag an oxygen tank behind her.

Unfortunately, I could not find my practical shoes on the day of the wedding. I hadn't left myself time to tear the house apart, foolishly assuming they would actually be in the closet with the other shoes. I had to go with an old pair with a rather high heel.

I kept them off in the car, slipping into them upon arrival.

They felt fine and, for a shining moment, I allowed myself to dream that I might survive but the moment I stepped out of the car, I almost fell on my nose as my heel got caught in the uneven gravel of the parking lot.

Damn you gravel.

I felt all eyes upon me (although there wasn't a soul in sight--we were late) as I stumbled, minced and tottered into the church and fell into a pew.

Throughout the ceremony all I thought of was my feet, bitterly observing that everyone around me appeared to be having no trouble whatsoever navigating on heels much higher than mine.

I wondered if they'd all taken lessons. Had I missed a seminar at Bloomies on how to walk in four inch heels?

Thanks for nothing.

Is it a problem with my gene pool? Did my prehistoric ancestors only wear practical flats as they rolled dough for strudel in their caves?

Struggling to remain upright at the cocktail hour, I watched enviously as others laughed gaily, dipping their delicious coconut shrimp into sweet and sour sauce while balancing on a variety of sleek stilettos, strappy sandals and bejeweled mules.

I, however, was now so preoccupied by not falling that I gave up and just leaned on one of those high tables, grimly swilling my wine spritzer.

Catching sight of another woman in apparently similar circumstances--leaning on a table across the room, she and I made silent eye contact as we clung to the edge and watched the shrimp pass us by.

We couldn't eat and stand at the same time and we knew it.

Oddly, I never saw her again after that. Had she conceded defeat early to go wait in the car as her husband spent the evening wishing his wife could manage in sexy shoes like the other X chromosomes at the wedding? 

I finally settled on a bent knee walk, lowering my center of gravity enough to keep upright as I hobbled into the reception hall and made it to our table.

I removed my shoes soon after.

We've all seen women in their stockinged feet at weddings. Even the bride and her maids often change into flip flops but mine were off way too early in the evening so I kept seated for about an hour. I finally got up to walk to the bathroom but nearly crashed to the floor anyway as I skirted the periphery of an extremely slippery dance floor.

When we got home, I immediately tossed my shoes onto a tower of crap in the garage and, lo and behold, noticed the lower, more practical shoes in that very pile. 

I remembered then that even they had been a problem at a previous wedding and that I'd tossed them there with the same disgust with which I'd launched the higher heels I'd worn that night.

Or I could wear these.

It was at that moment that I realized that I would have to wear work boots to any weddings in the future. Maybe it will start a trend. 

Cybill Shepherd never, ever wears heels.



Tales of The Titanic...

There's been lots of "Titanic" watching in my house lately.

Seth has an encyclopedic knowledge of the shipping industry both commercial and recreational and the "golden age" of cruising is a favorite subject in our home.

His ability to recognize ships is formidable so do not match wits with him when it comes to how many stacks the Berengaria had, my friend, for you will lose.

The Berengaria had three stacks.

He has always been extremely interested in both the history and lore of the most famous sinking of all: The Titanic.

He's read all the books and watched all the documentaries and specials and, while fascinated by what they've learned by the exploration of the actual wreck, is an advocate of leaving the ship where it lies and has for one hundred years.

Yep, it happened one hundred years ago this month on April 14, with the actual sinking taking place at 2:30 in the morning the following day.

For most, our knowledge of the tragedy is based solely on the movie with Leo and Kate.

The Titanic leaving Liverpool in April of 1912

We love that movie and have seen it several times. It is, of course, an epic film that's still able to personalize the tragedy and loss with the story of two star-crossed lovers while successfully depicting the massive scale of the disaster.

"I'll never let go, Jack..."
Yeah, right.

I will admit, however, that I repeatedly marvel at how quickly Rose, after promising Jack that she will "never let go" pushes his body off the edge of their "raft." For that matter, I still do not accept that there wasn't room for poor freezing Jack with her on what appeared to be a floating door or some sort of panel they'd found to grab onto. C'mon, Rose, you know there was room for him.

But what I want, specifically, to bring to your attention today is that there is another movie that, in my opinion, is just as good as the blockbuster with which we are all so familiar.

Get it from Netflix,
you will not be sorry.

The movie is a British film called "A Night to Remember." Made in 1954, it 's in black and white, which does not lessen the experience in any way.

It covers it all. There's emotion, history and people to care about although the there is no specific story line as in-depth as the one of Rose*, her fiance--that nasty boy, Cal Hockley played with fabulous arrogance by Billy Zane and her "he-saved-me-in-every way a person can be saved" hero, the irresistible Jack Dawson**.

You will, however, notice distinct similarities and even a line or two that James Cameron, the director of the 1997 version, either pinched or used in homage to the original film dedicated to the sinking. You'll recognize the "unsinkable" Molly Brown from the moment she walks into the movie.

Nipulars.

For those gentleman who will sit through it just to get to the scene in which Leo draws a naughty picture of Kate in her stateroom, there is no nipular content in the older movie. Sorry, kids.

In certain ways, I prefer "A Night to Remember" to the new version and highly recommend it.

 It has always elicited more emotion from me than it's showy younger brother with some searingly poignant moments that, I have no doubt, happened in similar ways, on the deck of the real Titanic on that awful night.

Sometimes when something is fictionalized so often or in so grand a manner, it can be easy to forget that the events shown happened to people just like us. Many goodbyes were said in the dark, in the cold. Many acts of sacrifice and bravery, whose specifics have no one left to remember them, took place on the wooden decks of that "unsinkable" ship.

"She threw what into the
where??"

As for the newer movie, I am consistently annoyed when the old lady tosses that giant diamond into the water. I might have sold it and spent the spoils but certainly would have left it to my granddaughter or given it to that poor bastard of a treasure hunter who's nearly out of cash instead of sending it to he bottom of the ocean...but that's just me.

`````````

*Other actresses considered for the part of Rose (who is only supposed to be 17 in the movie) were Gwynneth Paltrow and Claire Danes.

**Actors up for Jack Dawson were Matthew McConaughey, Chris O'Donnell and Billy Crudup

I think they were perfectly cast, don't you?

The Bacon Revolution

What in the name of salt, fat and calories is going on in America?

Bacon appears to be the new bling...or something.

Have you noticed how it's become chic to assert one's passion for the tasty meat that used to spend most of its time modestly reclining between the lettuce and tomato in your sandwich?

Bacon curtains

While I readily admit that it is the cornerstone of that sandwich (and is equally fabulous when cozying up to avocado and hard boiled eggs), it's still just, well, bacon.

Bacon sneaks

Between Michele Obama flexing her wondrous arms as she warns against childhood obesity and Dr. Oz forcing women to stroke decaying body parts on his show in order to promote a healthy lifefestyle, bacon has apparently become a symbol of defiance.

I just put real bacon
on a boo boo.

Recent case in point: I was reading a new blog I thought I might enjoy and found the first sentence in the writer's short bio went something like this: "I love bacon and don't care who knows it."

This was not a food blog. Not even close.

This woman had many fine accomplishments but the very first thing she chose to use in self-description was her love for bacon. I haven't looked at her blog since.

After too much bacon
kills you, you can
be buried in this.

Whether she meant to be tongue-in cheek or actually thinks that a defiant stance on bacon is a form of rebellion  -- despite the knowledge that if eaten often and in large quantities, your heart may attack you -- bacon is neither illegal nor hard to obtain.

It's been around for ever, is often on sale two-for-one at the market and is a choice of cured breakfast meat. It's not a philosophy, doctrine, creed or principle.

Bacon is, absolutely, a delicious addition to many things such as an omelet, quiche or spinach salad.

And, yes, it would be mad handy to throw in the other direction if a grizzly bear is following you and, lately, it's been coated with chocolate, crumbled atop ice cream and stood straight up in milk shakes as a garnish. But it's bacon, people, not world peace

Hey, I loved
me some bacon.

Liking it is grand. Who doesn't like it? But it is not a sign that you are the new James Dean...or, even the next Paula Deen.

So, continue to enjoy your bacon. But, please, leave it out of your strategy to rebel against the ever-growing list of politically correct directives being churned out by the media faster than Kim Kardashian can get divorced.

It's true that in the name of freedom for all, you can't say this or smoke there or even think that, but are we that neutered a society that loving bacon has become a manifesto of revolution?

Maybe.

If you want to shock or impress your parents, friends, readers, teachers, camp counselors or that woman from California Closets who came by to give you a free estimate-no obligation, leave bacon out of it. This is what heroin or booze are for...not bacon, at least until they lace it with PCP.

I will admit, however, that I am now in the mood for a tuna club...extra bacon.

I had nothing to do
with any of this.

Neither did I.

When the Screen Goes Blank and Everything is Gone (Including the Veggie Porn)

These days, we all do it.

We keep our calendars, correspondence, lists, photos, personal info, important reminders, bills, irresistibly cute cat pictures, recipes, outlines for the great American novel on our computers and all is well and good for a while....

But then, late one night we sign on to look at those sandals from Zappos for the millionth time and receive the shock of our lives. It's all gone.

Everything.

Tito the Cat

I've been talking about this for a while so when I noticed that my "wallpaper," (a picture of my son's cat as a tiny kitten, right after a bath in the kitchen sink) was no longer there but had been replaced by some scary corporate stock image, I leaned forward in my chair. The font sizes were different, too and that's never a good sign.

Going from 1 to 60 on the agitation-ometer very quickly, I clicked away only to discover that everything had been wiped clean. Documents, photos--gone. The file folders were there but were empty and lots of invitations to "customize" things began popping up.

Gotta love that
overnight delivery.

I sat and stared, Zappos sandals temporarily forgotten. I immediately became angry at my husband. It had to have been him. I hadn't been online all day.

He's always trying to get me to throw stuff out around the house. When he gets too aggresive, I wait until he dozes off in the recliner, duct tape him down and force him to sit through several episodes of "Hoarders." This usually buys me a month or so before he starts in on me again.

By clearing all the clutter from the computer, he's taken control, punished me, shown me who's boss...but I calm down quickly; he would never do this. After all, his stuff is gone, too.

I go up to bed and talk to him softly through his closed lids. Seth can be totally asleep but hears everything that is said to him and will answer without waking. If you say something shocking or alarming, he will immediately wake and sit up.

Last night, the statement "All our computer files are gone" got a much quicker response than "I think there's a sasquatch in the backyard" (which I said with great sincerity last week) or the more tongue-in-cheek "Madonna's on the phone. She needs dancers for her next tour and wants to know if you're interested."

He sat up for this one, his tiny hands clutching the blanket in horror.

To make a long story shorter, Seth fixed it. He did something mysterious and magical and all our files were returned. I will ask him about it sometime but all I really care about is that my stuff is back.

Mark my words, people--one day there will be a solar flare from the sun that cause a worldwide power outage.

All all our stuff...medical records, manuscripts, schedules, applications, calculations, carefully compiled collections of vegetable porn*...will all be gone in a second. Back-up paraphenalia, as well as your set of rapid-heat, non-frizz hot rollers, will be useless because we will have returned to cooking possums over open fires in the woods.

Remember us?

This is why I rant about not forgetting about the enduring power of a pencil and paper. But, I, too -- judging by my nocturnal meltdown -- am as guilty as the next guy.

I am putting my collection of Buzzy pictures on a disk as we speak as well as printing out some important things that will go into an old fashioned manila folder in the old fashioned drawer of an old fashioned desk. There they will be in danger only when Seth goes on his next anti-hoarding crusade.

But, don't worry. I have the duct tape ready.

Veggie porn (and you thought I was kidding).

The Disappearance of Etan Patz: Not Business as Usual

Etan Patz is possibly the most famous missing child in America and was the first to ever appear on a milk carton.

He disappeared 33 years ago after being allowed, as a six year old, to walk two blocks to a bus stop in Soho, an area in New York City that, though poised to bloom into the fashionable neighborhood it is today, was still very rough around the edges in 1970s New York City.

Iconic and heartbreaking

Etan's face was everywhere--newspapers, posters and, of course, the nightly news. The smiling, bare-shouldered photo of Etan is imprinted into the minds of New Yorkers of that time and became an iconic symbol of innocence stolen away.

According to Lisa Cohen, the author of a recent book on Patz, that innocence was replaced by a new wariness as a result of the events that transpired in May of 1979.

There are new leads in the three-decades old case now and Etan's face is now back in the news. During an interview yesterday, Cohen commented on the fact that allowing a six year old to walk two blocks alone in a New York neighborhood was business as usual...that it was "what was done then." She claims that the Patz disappearance was a turning point that ushered in a new era of vigilance and supervision.

I say she's crazy. And I thought so then.

While it was, doubtless, very different in other parts of the United States, New York City was and continues to be a world unto itself and -- in the 1970s and for most of the '80s --  it was a total hell hole. 

Rent a copy of Martin Scorcese's "Taxi Driver" if you want an accurate visual depiction of the Big Apple. Muggings were rampant, the subways were terrifying in certain areas and at certain times of day and the streets were absolutely filthy.

These days Times Square is a tourist's dream. Well-policed and home to glitzy retail, those who haven't experienced the "crossroads of the world" in the '70s would be stunned to know that porn palaces and peep shows lined the street and hookers plied their trade where happy visitors now decide in which tourist-trap restaurant to enjoy an over-priced dinner.

Times Square then...

As a young lady of 21 in 1970s New York, I learned to hold my keys between my fingers to gouge my attackers eyes and that shoving the palm of one's hand violently up against an aggressor's nose would, hopefully, kill him. We carried mace, avoided eye contact and traveled in groups after dark.

...and now.

It was in this city that a mother sent a small child out to walk two blocks and wait at a bus stop alone. I do not intend to cast aspersions on this family. They have been through the unthinkable but, at the time, I did not know a mother who would have allowed such a thing...not even in the quieter borough of Brooklyn where I lived and where children were still given a wider berth for fun and freedom.

The family's decision to allow him out alone was discussed in classrooms, at kitchen tables and around water coolers and it was agreed--evil is always looking for a moment when your guard is down and residents of a turbulent city in need of reform were, for the most part, aware of this.

Some people defend their decision saying a child must be allowed freedom to grow, to learn to survive on their own and I agree. But, as I used to say to my own children when they made unreasonably premature requests for freedoms they were too young to enjoy, "No."

I hope they find who they are looking for and do to him what he did to that poor child. As for his parents, I fervently wish them peace.

Tabloid Thursday: Posh and Becks/Angie and Brad

It was Victoria Beckham's birthday the other day.

The media got their fix when it was observed that, for dessert, after a celebratory London lunch, she enjoyed a fruit plate instead of a piece of cake.

The Beckhams appear to be enjoying a happy marriage. In the world of smoke and mirrors inhabited by David and his former Spice Girl, however, it's very possible that it's all for show....just like Heidi and Seal who I believed were in it for the long haul.

"We're so happy!"

While the concept of a marital "long haul" is relative, Will and Jada also threw me for a loop when rumors of marital discord surfaced because they seemed to spend so much time talking abut how happy they were. 

I am not certain how I fell for that but I now understand that it's a red flag when you have to tell people how happy you are.

But the Beckhams have been at this marriage thing for a while now, recently had another baby and, after extensive (I have no life) inspection of their body language in photos, I have decided that there marriage is secure. At least for the time being.

"How did these
baseballs end
 up in my dress?"

It just so happens that I had been recently wondering what the glorious David sees in the non-smiling and stick-thin Victoria. Is it her mind? Her bolted on round and hard-as-baseballs boobs? Her catatonic stare? The slightly porcine tilt to her nose?

I prefer to think that their union is the same as any good marriage...it began based on genuine attraction (although who wouldn't be attracted to David Beckham, come to think of it?) and is now a combination of friendship as well as romance.

This thought pleases me and causes me to regard Victoria with much more warmth than when I read think about the traveling circus known as Brangelina.

"Huh?"

It appears that Brad is now engaged to that praying mantis of a woman who I believe has hynotized him with the same sort of humming and chafing that certain insects often use to captivate their mates. As far as a marriage goes, it will never, ever make it. Ever.

The divorce will be spectacular. It will make the televised news around the globe. In fact the networks will halt all regular programming for weeks to cover it from every angle and their faces will be on supermarket tabloids for an entire year.

Pretty but predatory

Angie will lose more weight in protest, shielding her eyes from the paparazzi's flash bulbs with a bony claw.

Brad, on the other hand, while too much of a gentleman to discuss the marriage, will appear happier and healthier than he has in years, his platelet count finally starting to renew itself after years of questionable foreplay with Vampira, Queen of Darkness.

But back to the Beckhams and her fruit platter. The media was gleeful over this and for a moment, so was Susan Says--imagining the fun I would make of this birthday aberration. But after I read that the fruit was enjoyed after a birthday lunch with Becks and the new baby, I rethought it all.

The fruit plate in
question

 I bet they they had cake later with the older kids.

The Beckham balloons

A notorious fashionista whose weight is her own damn business, I bet she enjoyed fruit earlier in the day so she could plunge her face into a slab of something more festive later in private.

They may have driven home from the restaurant in a Rolls but they had balloons and signs up in the living room just like any other family.

And, not to mention if my life included a few more fruit plates and less cake, well guess whose ass would be smaller?

Besides, when you have none other David Beckham living in your house, you really don't need cake, now do you, girls?

Sylvia the Bird

Robins eggs are such a
lovely color.

I have noticed that when cynical and more-than-slightly jaded urban dwellers relocate their city tuchases to the country, an odd phenomena occurs: We go absolutely nutso-cuckoo-wigs-into-outer space over our new animal friends and neighbors.

And, no--I am not talking about that family a few roads down who never opens their blinds and are, therefore, most likely cooking meth in giant tubs in their living room. I refer to the actual members of the wild kingdom with whom we now share our lives.

I just saw a bunny.
Hold me.

Sightings of bunnies, gophers or deer will draw the whole family -- even the hardened criminals and Hell's Angels among us -- to the window to ooh and aah over the critters that prance, poop or hop across our yards.

And, no--I am not referring to Menudo. Yes, they pranced but they broke up decades ago and were never even into nature all that much, anyway. 



A rare sighting.



Even the nastiest teenagers are reduced to gurgling babies and will temporarily stop sext-ing to enjoy a backyard visit from a raccoon or  fox.

If you combine this hysteria with a primal longing for our own grown-and-flown offspring to return to the nest, you have a powerful combo...hence, our recent obsession with a bird we have named Sylvia.

Sylvia is a chubby young robin who built a nest directly under our deck and, quite literally, has taken the place of the heartless sons who no longer live here.

She is a smart girl since the location she's chosen is nicely hidden and, therefore -- if all goes well --  will be subjected to nothing more shocking than Seth scurrying naked into the hot tub every evening a little past sundown. If I can take it, so can she.

Sylvia apparently has already laid her eggs because she spends most of her day sitting in the nest. We spend most of our day admiring her.

And what's not to admire? Not only is she very pretty but she's stalwart and vigilant--leaving only to snack and briefly stretch her wings, impressing us no end by what appear to be 45 degree turns as she shifts her warmth to evenly incubate her eggs.

Seth and I comment happily to one another about her focus and determination as she stares straight ahead, clearly in some sort of DNA induced avian trance.

We were planning on power washing and restaining the deck this week in preparation for the season but now will wait, however long it takes, for Sylvia to not only hatch her babies but until they fly away to have families of their own.

The dreaded
empty nest.

I sincerely hope both Sylvia and I can endure it when they go.

I know I will relive the trauma of Tommy leaving home to become a hoodlum in the Bronx and how painful it was to deposit Charlie at college where he learned important lessons like how to smoke a hookah.

I may run after the little robins and implore them to stay, waving my arms and sobbing, just like I did when Tom and Charlie put me through this. Experience tells me that they will fly just like the boys, despite the tears and pleading.



Don't even think it,
Bluejays.



Until then, Seth and I will continue to take turns sitting under the deck with a rifle pointed at that blue jay stronghold in the oak tree and police the grounds for rodents who may loiter below, hoping for a baby to tumble to the ground after an unsuccessful flight, God forbid. No one will dare mess with Sylvia while Seth and I are around.

Sleep well tonight, Sylvia, we've got your back.

Sylvia sitting in her nest beneath the deck.