Boobie Breakfast

"Who names . . . or named . . . the birds?"

"What?"

"I mean, really...Nazca Boobies! I understand the scientific names for categorization, organization, all that stuff that scientists think they need and can agree on, but the common name . .  . Sounds like NASCAR."

"Well," she says, patiently, but with the trace of a smile that hints at her pleasure, or, is the word 'enjoyment,' of his fascination, bordering on indignation, at the daily revelation of a bird species neither of them has ever seen or heard of. The Blue Boobie back in March was memorable, but today's Nazca Boobie is her favorite so far....and only five days before the end of the year--no doubt there is significant significance there. "Well," she says again, "it was probably somebody local to their origin who named it, and the name so perfectly described it, that it caught on."

"But 'boobie!?' Sounds like a joke," he says, then laughs. "It is a joke! Have you seen this bird?"

She is vigorously stirring the oatmeal to keep it from burning, but turns toward him to feign interest in the boobie. "Hmmm," she says, then swivels back to the oatmeal before it is scorched.

"That hardly says it."

"The oatmeal is ready," she announces, but he is now too deep in the history of boobies, muttering something about the origin of the word, then he proclaims, loudly and triumphantly, "The name booby was based on the Spanish slang term bobo, meaning "stupid" because the booby bird had a habit of landing on board sailing ships where they were easily captured and eaten."

Her immediate instinct is to sling a spoonful of hot oatmeal if not the whole pot on the boobie standing next to her, but grace, or a vision of the mess it would create, stops her in time. She dishes up two bowls, hands one to her favorite boobie, and the day begins, again,  without a bobo incident. 

Blowing in the Wind

     The wind was up. 

    Blowing.

    Relentless.

    "Gale force," she said.

    "Worse," he said.

    "How could it be worse than gale force?"

    "Well, easy," he said. "Just look out the window." Which she had been doing for the last ten minutes, watching as the wind spewed up dirt in the bald patch of grass, then picked up that scourge of urban life, the plastic bag, spun it up, up, up, then hurled it towards them, and slammed against the picture window, a giant, a misshapen white eye on the glass. They laughed and backed up.

    "Quit your staring," she said.

     "Careful, Mister," he said. "Remember you are only a bag."

    "Yes," she said, "and not even compostable.

    The bag slid an inch down the window, as if in agreement, then a sudden gust lifted it up, up, then a shift in the wind pasted it against the window again, inches from her face. The implication was clear: Take that--which made her mad at first, genuinely angry until she started to laugh, more than a chuckle, but, thankfully, short of hysteria. The bag trembled on the window pane, but didn't really move. The force of the wind kept it plastered it there, inches from her face.

    "That's the nastiest bag I've ever seen," she said.

    "Hmmm, a bag with personality," he said, instinctively accepting the assignation of conscious behavior to a thin piece of white plastic with three red concentric circles.

    "Well, I wasn't thinking . .. . "

    "It's okay," he said. "The wind will take care of it."

    She took a step back, to show that she was abandoning the top-of-her-head, first-thing-in-the-morning conversation and wondered, with a whiff of compassion that bordered on interest, how he would extricate himself from the pointless morning banter.

    "Blowing in the wind," he crooned. "How many roads must a bag blow down before you can call it a bag."

    "And how many bags must rise up to the roof before they are sent to the trash," she sang.

    "The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind."

    "The answer is blowing in the wind." They hit the last note perfectly and laughed together, also perfectly, a gift of their long partnership.