Okay, so there’s this bird farm not too far from our house.  It took us almost a year of driving past before we managed to stop in and see just what it was all about.  Was it a farm where they grew birds?  Did the birds work on the farm, picking corn and planting crops?  There was no way to tell from the outside.  The Husband called once to inquire if they sold chicken feed – they don’t – and that was the most contact we’d had.

One day driving by, on a whim, we impulsively turned into the parking lot to finally check the place out.

The first thing we noticed was that, much like the pet store, bird owners brought their birds with them when they shopped there.  Note to self: find a bird to bring next time. 

Turns out it was mostly just a store that sold birds and bird accessories.  Womp womp womp.  There was no farm, although there was a large netted area outside for . . . I dunno.  Bird training?  Bird gymnastics?  Birds studying to join the circus?    Whatever it was for, it was pretty interesting.  So were the birds actually.  For the toddler, It was akin to a visit to the zoo, but much closer to home and without the exorbitant entrance fee.

Want to know my favorite part of the store?  It was this sign:

Hands of Affection RW

Ha!  A simple don’t touch the birds would have sufficed.

The sign reminded me of the Sex Education course my gym teacher taught in High School.  With one small change, however, Ms. I-Can’t-For-The-Life-Of-Me-Remember-Her-Name could have just posted this instead and skipped the rest of the course entirely.

Hands of Affection BOYS RW

Ha!  Ha!  That’s right . . . I deserve two ha’s for this one!

If you’re not in the mood for humor today here’s a link to an article I read earlier this year that talks about why Sex Education should not be taught in schools.  Also quite interesting.

– Joanna

Question of the Day:  How do you feel about birds?  The Husband sometimes says he’d like one and I always say the same thing: birds are dirty.  I enjoy birds, don’t get me wrong.  I enjoy outside birds.  

I’ve had a request to talk about Miley Cyrus.  That’s right, someone (cough Ann cough) has REQUESTED a post from ME.  ME.

I’m clearly big-time.  You should all be thankful you knew me when.

Right then.

Miley Cyrus.

So here’s the thing . . . I don’t get all into the hype of the Oscar’s or the Tony’s or the AMA’s or the VMA’s or the POS’s.  Okay I made that last one up but it seemed appropriate at the time so let’s go with it.  Famous people just don’t do it for me.  I don’t care that they’re famous.  I don’t follow them relentlessly on social media or try to replicate the last outfit they were seen in on the cover of Cosmo or even buy Cosmo for that matter.

Except for maybe Jim Croce (who’s dead so it’s never gonna happen) I really don’t even have a desire to meet a famous person.

My Brother-in-Law recently invited me to a Sci-Fi Convention (it’s one of my geekier passions, let’s just breeze past it like I never even mentioned it) and after much debate I politely declined because I knew he’d want to get autographs. The thought of standing in line to meet an actor from Firefly felt akin to standing in a giant vat of water that slowly started to heat up.  At first it’s all cool, then you have a nagging building suspicion that something is not quite right till you’ve been there 45 minutes and your head suddenly explodes.  Clearly I’ve never been mistaken for a patient person.  And yes I swear it takes 45 freaking minutes to boil water on my 30 year old stove top.

My BIL is pretty cool though so it would have been nice to chat with him sans kiddos.  And since I’m a geek I wouldn’t have minded the experience one bit.  So mostly it was the line standing.

Now don’t get me wrong, I like music and TV and movies just like everybody else.

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