Les Hungré Birds

She sits outside, looking into the window at the warm glow of a kitchen. A biting winter wind whips around her. She holds her small body tighter, puffing against the frigid assault as a splash of water caught in the wind washes over her. She sets her sight on that warm bountiful kitchen opens her tiny toothless mouth and begins to sing: "I Dream a Dream...a Dream of Seeds..."

No, this is not Anne 'Fantine' Hathaway but the tiny chickadee who is staring into my kitchen window. I don't like her accusatory stare but it is my own fault.

I have let the bird feeder go empty.

I fear the large speckled starling Jean Valjean will incite the handful of titmice and finches. Their tiny beaks will peck into me as they whistle and caw 'Let Us Eat Soot Cakes!'

That evil mourning dove Madame Thénardier has already caused a disturbance, complaining that her tiny feet freeze when perching on the metal bird feeder. And those filthy squirrel convicts running around the yard waving French flags and bathing in the fountain...

And a tiny Cardinal Cosette sings: 'Freedom...Freedom...'
Oops, that's George Micheal...

Anyway...

Dear Lord, I hope they don't start launching pigs...

Give me Sunflower Seeds or I Poop on your Deck!

And Tonight, Playing Herself....

I was telling a co-worker about a dream I had the other night. In the dream my husband was trying to save me from some LesMiz style of consumption-riddled, tooth-selling, semi-prostituting demise. But, here's the catch, my husband was played by Bill Murray. And I wasn't 'me'. I was playing someone else...who was playing me...being someone else...

To which my co-worker replied, 'Oh my!'. She then muttered something about wondering what it would be like to take a little trip through the avenues of my mind.

And she moved her chair to the far end of our desk.

But it left me wondering about the dream. Could it be I am unhappy with my husband and wish to replace him with a former comedian turned serious actor? Am I seeking a way to become someone else? Do I want to experience the squalor of pre-revolutionary France or is is just that I really want to lose thirty pounds by what ever means necessary? Is this some cosmic way of telling me to embrace the inner me and learn to love a Chicago accent?

I have no idea. But when I mentioned the casting choice to my husband he said he was okay with it, stating that Bill Murray really has come into his own as an actor. And then he inquired as to the physical attributes of the woman I was 'playing'.

In your dreams buddy...in your dreams...