I Think I Am That Bored

I woke up this morning anxious. As a gigantic pot of coffee was brewing, I peered out the window onto the balcony and into my flower box where two little baby birds were still snuggled alone. Early yesterday afternoon, as I typing away with a furrowed brow to finish a deadline, I glanced out the window and noticed the mother bird had left. (I also noticed that my flowers are dying since I haven't watered them in three weeks so as not to disturb the nest.) Hours passed and she still had not returned. We had new neighbors move in yesterday -- making quite a bit of noise. Could the mother have left out of irritation? Was she sick of her kids? Had she had enough of her life and left everything in search of greener pastures?

I stayed home last night, compulsively peeking through the wooden blinds to watch over the little babies. What could be so important to take a mother away from the nest with two little ones at home alone? Where was the father? There were no other mourning doves around to check on them. Years ago, when I first moved to Los Angeles, I stayed a couple months with my brother until I found a place of my own. There, on his balcony, a mourning dove had laid one egg. It hatched one day and the mother bird flew away never to return. It was excruciating to watch. I feared a similar situation.

It is amazing the thoughts we think and the feelings we feel through the skewed lenses of our personal experiences. We are sometimes quick to cast judgment and think we know what is best. This morning as I leashed Billy to go for our walk, I was doing just that. I was getting really perturbed. I wish there was a number for child protective services for mourning doves I could call, I told my husband. He sat quietly on the sofa blocking my view of his rolling eyes with a coffee cup. He didn’t read “Are You My Mother” as a little kid. That book is brutal.

I am relieved to report that nearly 24 hours later, the father has returned to the nest to care for the baby birds. The mother is still no where to be found. I cannot believe how attached I am to them -- little birds that, honestly, look similar to two hairballs some cat coughed up. I am really not that bored with my life -- just concerned with something I cannot control and avoiding a bunch of work I have to do all weekend. I am really overdue to have some fun...

The Blue-Footed Booby and me

There was a time in my youth when I was a recent college graduate and moved to New York City. I barely made enough money to pay the rent on an extremely small apartment I shared with a friend. I worked for a few dollars a day as an assistant fact-checker for an art magazine. But I had a lot of friends there, many of whom I knew from college. Despite the high price of drinks in the bars (there were no quarter pitcher nights like I was used to at school), I had a very active and fun social life. For whatever reason, I was never short on male attention, until I moved there. And then I had quite a dry spell. I could not figure out why. Surely, I had done something wrong. Were my clothes not right? Was I not tall enough? Did I let my Midwestern drawl slip out too many times, I wondered. My confidence was low.

My father came back from the Galápagos some time when I was living in New York. He told me about the Blue-Footed Booby, a type of bird which is native to the area. The male boobies have a peculiar mating dance when they wished to catch the eye of a female. I was intrigued and needed to hear more. Perhaps, there was something I could glean from this. The males are very proud of their blue feet, my dad told me, which range in blue hues from pale turquoise to bright cobalt. Females tend to be attracted to the males with the brightest, bluest feet. Although, the females’ feet are also blue, they are not nearly as attractive as the males. This is very different than humans; usually we don’t want to look at men’s feet. We spend money paying others to scrub, rub, primp and polish ours.

But in order to catch a mate, male boobies flaunt their feet. When they find one of particular linking, they start out slowly lifting one foot and then the other. They move into a slow dance, of sorts, trying to capture the eye of their chosen affection. When they think they’ve almost sealed the deal, they will stamp their feet on the ground, flap their wings, throw back their heads and let out a whistling sound. This behavior, I thought at the time, was not very different than some loud drunken 22 year-old males I know. And that display, would surely send most sensible girls right out the door. One thing I liked about the boobies was that the males will bring females gifts -- housing materials to build a nest. These male boobies think ahead. They are not a seasonal reproducing species either, nor mate out of boredom or inebriation. They seize an opportunity when they see a female for whom they’ve taken a fancy. Surely attracted to her mind, male boobies were selective and indiscrete; I liked to think that too.

I needed to resort to a different tactic in my own personal life since I hadn’t been asked on a date months after moving to the city. I would try something similar as these booby birds. In those days, young women didn’t regularly go out to their local nail shop to get their toes painted like we religiously do today. But many of these places existed and I got mine all spruced up. Bright blue polish wasn’t an option, so I went for a bright hibiscus pink instead. That Friday night with my hair in a perfect flip (much like Kierin Kirby of Deee-Lite – think of the Groove is in the Heart video), I crossed town and met up with my friends for a little cheap bourbon and raspberry soda before we ventured out to plop down half a weeks earnings on alcohol at one of the latest and trendiest bars on the upper east side (look… I was young, it was the early 90s and this is what we did). It was late spring, I wore multi-colored strappy sandals with a reasonable heel, as we did in those days … 20-somethings wore reasonable heels. I would catch the eye of another young man here and there, and then I would gaze my eyes downwards as I fanned out my newly painted toes. If I sat, I would cross and uncross my ankles surely this would capture someone’s attention. This tactic simply did not work.

I certainly didn’t want an egg, I wasn’t looking for a mate, I didn’t even want a boyfriend. I was young, egotistical and believed everything my college commencement speech said: the world was my oyster. I was living in New York City a placed I had planned on since visiting early in my teen years, I was working for one of the best art magazines even though the staff there yelled all the time and I was starving and could barely afford peanut butter for dinner. I got to see my best friends from college regularly, but I was suffering from insufficient male attention. And this, I thought in my young, naïve and dramatic way, was devastating.

When I look back all these years later, I realize that year I spent in New York was pivotal. I had a fantastic opportunity that I alone created, but I ultimately couldn’t maintain. Though I was knocked down numerous times, it was a gamble I chose and it pointed me in the right direction. I didn’t understand the world at the time -- if you work hard, you will be rewarded -- were the words I was raised on. But I realized then this notion doesn’t hold true to for everyone. I wonder if I was wise enough at the age of 22 to set aside my petty pain and understand how life really worked, would I have had to take such a rough and long detour marred with bigger issues ahead.

Images from: Wikipedia; North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences; Natural Wildlife Federation; Anderson Free Press; The Travel Blog; Big Country Audubon;

The Babies Are Here !

Oh, I've been so worried. For the past two weeks. I've never gotten over March of the Penguins -- my eyes were swollen for days afterwards from boo-hooing. Thank god I watched it from the privacy of my own home and not in the theater. Someone would have had to carry me out of the movie house in a stretcher. I was fetal.


Two weeks ago, I noticed a pair of mourning doves stomping around in my flower boxes and crushing my newly planted pansies. It made me a little cranky, until I realized what was going on. Then I romanticized the whole thing. And felt a little special that they chose my flower box on my balcony. Narcissistic, I know, but it made me happy. It is the little things, at times. Every day I waited and protected the couple looking from my living room window -- through the wind and the rain and shooed any pesky squirrel sniffing around.


I avoided going out on the balcony, and certainly prevented my husband from doing so with his manly voice. He didn't share the same... affection as I did for these little eggs. I didn't want the mother to be scared off. She needed to keep the eggs warm. My thoughts went back to March of the Penguins. And the scene with the cold, cracked egg which the parent penguins mourned. I still get weepy.

When the mourning dove mother needed a break, the father stepped up to take her place and keep the eggs warm. Neither of them seemed to mind my dog, who absolutely insists on sunbathing during warm late afternoons. The cushioned chaise lounge is his. While my husband and I get a metal chair.

Two little baby birds born today. So far a success. I'm still keeping my distance until they are old enough and strong enough to venture out on their own. No BBQ-ing for a bit on the balcony. No loud noises or sudden movements, and certainly no more foul language.

My dog during a mid-afternoon nap before his snack, followed by another light walk down the street, and then to stretch out on his chair outside on the balcony. I cater, I pander, I will do anything this dog wants. After dinner and yet another walk, I put him to bed at night. And then I can finally get some real work done.