"And the Little Birdies sing, Cheep, Cheep."

Everything is different this morning. The Lovely Carla is in the Big Apple, and I'm here with the little birdies. The birdies are not happy and they're telling me so by chirping up a storm, I guess they're telling me that I'm not their preferred caretaker, and everything's out of whack, and they are NOT AMUSED. I can only do what I do. My energy, my tempo, my demeanor, is a little askew, and well, that's just the way it is...this morning, I'm an "actualist," what happens is what actually happens, and what happens today is Sunny Jimmy rules the roost, and since I can't make head nor tails (I'm no Dr. Doolittle), out of what those little chirps and squeeks actually mean, I'm gonna just do what I do and these little creatures are gonna have to play along.

I put them in the kitchen, the sun room, back to their home in the bedroom, nothing works. I give them brocolli, lettuce, their favorite multi-grain bread, and still, they are not impressed. They are unhappy with the world. I'm not the Lovely C. and there's nothing I can do about it. No muffins, no pop tarts, I just brew up my Organic French Roast, turn up the music a little louder and try to reduce the birdies chirps to background noise, little high-pitched, dissonant backup vocals, kind like the Pips to my Gladys Night.