What with my being a 48-year-old woman going through menopause, I decided to spend my lunch hour outdoors today to help me overcome the hot flashes. Despite some lovely landscaping, there is no place to sit outside the palatial headquarters of my benevolent employer because we are located in suburbia and simply spending time outdoors -- not at a designated soccer field or baseball field or the like -- is against the law. More importantly, this is business park suburbia; business people do not go on walks or simply sit outside; they pay $145 a month to run on treadmills indoors whilst watching MSNBC.
So, I sat in the grass. It was overcast and about 45 F (7 C), but I was wearing a rocking warm sweater, so I was fine. Something about the weather and the atmosphere -- serene and yet everything moving all around me -- reminded me of sitting on a train platform in Wales on a Sunday.
And I read my book, "Y Sach Winnwns," by Gary Slaymaker. I recommend it.
Suddenly, just behind me came the sound of birds; it was if someone had turned up a volume knob on their stereo. And in a large, leafless tree across the street I saw dozens and dozens of small birds, silhouetted black against the gray sky. It was like a scene out of Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds."
"What could possibly be the point of all that chirping?" I thought. "It's cacophonous. There is no way one bird could hear and discern the blathering of another. They are like elementary-aged children doped up on sugar -- mindlessly making noise into the wind."
After staring at them for a few minutes, I went back to my book and they continued on with their chirping.
Then, again very suddenly, they all stopped at exactly the same time. It was as if they had all gone on a birdy one-two-three count to shut up. They swung out of the trees en masse, probably 150 to 200 of them, and undulated like a bubble in a lava lamp -- making a soft "swoosh" as they passed about 50 feet overhead. I watched them wander, seemingly directionless, toward the west, then looked back and saw that not one bird was remaining in the tree.
It was all very odd. I'm afraid I don't have anything poignant or witty to say about it, though.
I used that "BlogThis!" feature (what a lame element this is -- how about instead spending the same time on making Welsh one of the language options?) for the first time today to draw attention to Esther's post in which she sorts out any foreign policy issues that may come up when she becomes president like Geena Davis.
Hopefully when she becomes president, people will see Slowpoke Rodriguez for the role model he truly is.
"Twenty-two years ago, Wooddale (Minn.) was a traditional house of worship with a fourteen-space parking lot. Now it's a thirty-one-acre complex of Christian modernity where 5,000 people worship on an average weekend and buses shuttle worshippers to and from the far reaches of its mall-sized parking lot."
That's wrong in a lot of ways.
"Hi there. My name is Nick Stokes. I live in St. Louis and I'm a gypsy. I've come for your daughter."
"Oh, sure. Here you go."
I used to have a girlfriend who wrote "I love Chris" on everything -- her walls, her notebooks, her clothing. I was pretty sure she was a little crazy, but clearly I had an inaccurate perception of what crazy is:
"Slaby woke up in (his girlfriend's) bed after a nap with his penis glued to his stomach, his testicles glued to his leg and his rectum glued shut. Purple and red nail polish made his gray hair look tie-dyed. Profanity was painted on his lower back."