For lack of anything else...
- There is a cable box at the end of my stairs that is never completely closed. Every spring, the birds think this is an ideal spot for a nest. So, I watch them build their nest and scare the shit out of them each time I come down the stairs.
Then like clockwork, a week or two later, I see the cable man has cometh. The shreds of what use to be a fine nest litter the ground along with two or three crushed blue eggs.
When will the bird ever learn? When will the cable man ever learn? Why does he have to crush the eggs?
- I have a confession to make. I'm a lurker. I read your blogs but I rarely comment. I don't know why. I guess I feel like I rarely have anything interesting to say. But it's weird because I feel like I sort of "know" these people yet I've never written one word to them. I've seen them through births, deaths and divorces. I've been privy to so many changes in their lives but they wouldn't know me if I walked up and slapped them in the face...not that I want to slap them in the face. Do I have lurkers?
Hey...I'll comment if you will!
- There are close friends who know about my blog who refuse to read it. What is that all about?
- I had someone come up to me one day and say, "Aren't you Melinda?" I said "No." They said "Yeah, you're Melinda, Joyce's daughter."
If I had half a brain, I'd have said, "Oh right. Yeah...thanks for that. I didn't know my name or who my mother was before you came along. What would I have done without you?"
- When my now 17 yr old nephew was a wee little thing, he loved for me to sing him to sleep. We would both cram ourselves into his small “big boy” bed and instead of nursery rhymes; I sang songs from the Eagles and Bad Company.
His favorite was Shooting Star. One night as I was putting him to bed he said, with his adorable speech impediment (he finally grew out of) “Ting me da tong bout da boy wit da dit-tar.”
Him: Ting me da tong bout da boy wit da dit-tar!
Me: The boy with the what?
Me: Sweetie, I don’t know what song you’re talking about? What’s a dit-tar?
Him, holding my face between his tiny hands and speaking very slowly: DIT-TAR, DIT-TAR
Me: Oh!! Guitar!! The boy with the guitar?
Him: Des!! Dit-tar!!
I had to think…what song about a boy with a guitar did I sing to him last time?
Oh! Shooting Star!
I’ve never forgotten that and to this day, when I hear that song, I think of him.
I guess he feels the same way because the other night, when he was out with his friends, I got a text message from him:
“they r playing our song!”