|It's the blimp, Frank, it's the blimp!
||[Sep. 16th, 2006|02:25 pm]
Phrembah (a potato-like mystery)
"When I see you floatin' down the gutter, I'll give you a bottle o' wine." (You just don't find friends like that anymore.)
. . .
Thursday somebody broke into my house. "Broke" is a little bit of an exaggeration. They slit the screen in the open window and crawled in the front window facing the street. Jeez. This happened less than an hour before I got home from work. They were apparently frightened away by the alarm, though, because there was nothing taken. The alarm company called the police and the officer who arrived roughly an hour and forty minutes after the alarm was tripped, was one of the most beautiful women I have ever talked to in person. She looked like a TV cop. Well-spoken women who look like that don't really become real cops, do they? Oops, my T-shirt is riding up on my beer gut exposing my male chauvinist porcinity, but it was more embarrassing than usual* explaining how, yes, I pay $35 a month for a monitored alarm and then leave windows unlocked when I leave. And, yes, I understand that alarm-company-reported residential burglaries are lower priority than lunch on the police docket. And, yes, I will grow up and pay more attention in the future. Like I said, embarrassing.
. . .
The swallows left this week. There were all kinds of them all over the neighborhood. Way more than the five living under my porch. Maybe they were massing for migration or something. I am assuming the kids all grew up and flew away. The last I saw, they were fully formed, but smaller than their parents. They would get up on the edge of the nest and flap their wings furiously, then get back in and wait for mom and dad to bring some more juicy bugs for dinner.
The web says that barn swallows nesting in North America may winter as far south as Argentina. If that's the case, no wonder they were anxious to hit the road.
. . .
*Yes, this has happened before. I'll have to chronicle that sometime.