By Heather O.
I titled this post thus because really, what I’m posting about is random crap, but somehow, I feel that if I make it a long and sorta clever title, it will be more meaningful than just random crap. Plus, my son has taken to reading my blog over my shoulder, and I’m not all that keen on him running around saying things like, “My mom writes blogs about random crap!”. After all, there was the incident where he answered the door and said to my primary presidency, “My room is REALLY MESSY so don’t go up there, kay?”
Yeah, thanks a lot, kid. Careful the things you say, children will listen….
These days I’ve taken up tennis. And when I say taken up, I mean I get together with a few women and try to pretend I know how to serve. The first time we did it, I woke up with a sore forearm. A SORE FOREARM. Who even knew forearms could be sore? It was an painful but oddly righteous feeling. Don’t you feel righteous when have stiff and sore muscles? Only me then?
But I’m finding that tennis is a great aggression releasing sport. Whacking a ball as hard as you can relieves stress in a way that running doesn’t. I’ve been in a pretty good mood since I started playing, and while the awesome weather we’ve been enjoying has been a huge mood lifter, it makes me wonder if I should play more often. Or take up another sport besides running. Like kick boxing. I’ll bet kicking the crap out of a something every day would go a long way in keeping a momma happy. Or is that just me too?
Speaking of muscles, every time I watch Bones, I wonder what Dr. Temperence Brennen would say if she examined my remains. For those of you who aren’t addicted to this show, it’s about a forensic anthropologist who solves murders by examining victim’s bones. I always think, “Hey, I wonder if she could tell that I broke my thumb when I was 14, or if she could tell my height just by looking at my tibia.” Anybody else imagine themselves a rotting corpse on an examination table? Again, just me? All righty then. Morbid imaginations, unite!
So, the chickadee eggs have hatched, and the babies have gone from looking like tiny boiled chickens to ugly ducklings with a bad dye job. But the momma chickadee and the daddy chickadee are being good little birdie parents, and spend the day bringing bright green worms to their babies. I have no idea where they get these bright green worms, or even what these worms are, but the babies send up a chorus of screeching chirps when these worms show up, so I guess they’re a happy thing, if you’re an ugly baby duckling chickadee.
But the other day, a squirrel got up to the box where the nest is, and I’ll be danged if the chickadee momma didn’t dive bomb that squirrel until the squirrel ran away. It was quite the dramatic match up–a big fat squirrel vs. a tiny little chickadee. It was an awesome display of momma strength, and it made me think that big or small, mommas are all the same. Don’t mess with our babies, man, or we’ll dive bomb your fat squirrel heads until you don’t KNOW what hit you.
That is all.
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