Let me Give You...the Bird

Last night, on a foray from the bedroom to the kitchen to cobble together a late night gourmet treat of Wheat Thins with some artichoke dip ... Wait, what? At midnight? Why am I eating this at midnight? Isn't there something else I could be doing?
Actually, no. What can I say? The Ambien makes me hungry, and then I forget how much I've eaten. It's a great system, which only malfunctions when I step on the scale. Since I broke my ankle last summer, I try not to step on the scale because it throws off my balance.
And if that isn't a good enough excuse for you, I have others.
So on my way, I thought I'd glance through the bookshelves in the fireplace room. Yes ... it's a fireplace room because that's where the fireplace is, and it has no other earthly purpose. And I actually found the book I had been seeking.
Bird by Bird...by that smarty pants, witty writer Anne Lamott. Bird by Bird. An apt title, and just what I needed.
For I am The Spring Chicken, and yes, that's a bird... albeit a sort of squatty, squawky, ungraceful (yet delicious with parm and Best Foods mayo) bird.  And I'm a writer, who hasn't been in the mood to write for, oh, three years now.  (I mean, really, who *is* in the mood to write?)
Ann's book offers 'some instructions on 'Writing and Life' and she ain't whistling writers block. As her writer father told her brother once, when he was overwhelmed at an essay due about birds: Just take it bird by bird.
And so, ever so reluctantly, The Spring Chicken takes up her quill. Please don't go down the metaphor path here because it'll end up with the laying of an egg, which is painful and time consuming and usually ends up scrambled.
I've been doing a bit of writing, actually. On Facebook, and Twitter. Twitter tells me I've logged in over 3000 tweets, and I can attest that each one is witty and pithy and profound.
I'm a bit pithy myself. Pithiness is vastly underrated today. We should all be limited to 140 characters whenever we talk to each other, and then stop, and listen to the 140 coming from the other person, in whom we have absolutely no interest, and are only waiting until he shuts up.
If he can only offer 140 characters, we needn't wait long.
Those who actually answer "How are you?" with the truth need not apply.
Who is this Spring Chicken, you're asking. If you're still here, of course. I'm a bit of an observer, a poker, a prodder, a commenter, an ad libber. A chicken dropping disturber.  Yeah, a squawker. I do see the absurd and I like that ability in myself; the tendency to take things too seriously has only given me gas (and a few real estate contracts.)
I'm a cafeteria Catholic whose Jewish relatives and enlightened friends have combined to create a Buddhist, spiritual, meditating, about 27.5% enlightened being who prefers Starbucks French Roast and a really good, authentic bagel. And rainy days and Mondays don't get me down. I'm much more likely to be felled by a cheerful Sunday afternoon pierced by the sound of a motorboat on the lake.
So. Then. Good to be back, and wish me luck with my hopeful commitment to write a chicky blog at least three times a week. Every week.
As Anne Lamott's dad would say...bird by bird.