Nov 10

Therapy Thursday

Dear Birdman,
I have recently started dating a new woman. Well, we’ve had one date but plan on having another one this week. I really like this woman, and we seem to have a lot in common, but she wants to wait for 90 days before we take our “relationship” to the next level. Is this a normal thing to have happen? She says it is to get to know each other better and build trust and respect. Do I wait or try something sooner? Should I be offended or flattered?
By the way, Mrs.Birdman, you give out awesome advice. It is because of you that I had the courage to ask for this lady’s number. Thank you!

Dear Curious,

First of all, we really appreciate the fact that you send in questions. You are clearly the only reader that gives two shits about whether Therapy Thursday survives or not. Maybe you could suggest us to some of your friends, because our friends clearly have no troubles whatsoever, or they just don’t trust us enough to send in their woes. If that’s the case, make a fake hotmail account and send it in anonymously. Whatever it takes for us to keep on going, because this is all I have to make me feel important.

Sorry, I needed to get that out there. Now onto your problem. I fully believe that you should wait a bit, just while you run your background checks, and hire a private detective to take pictures of her for a week or so. Three months is a bit much though; I’d go with three weeks. You will have to shell out at least $1500 for the detective service, but it’s well worth it. If you don’t have the cash lying around, you should go to new home job sites, and strip whatever copper and brass that you can. Make sure you take them to a different town to sell the scrap, because you don’t want to be spending the winter in the hoosegow. Copper is going for around $3 a pound in our area, and you should be able to get enough out of a new subdivision to cover the P.I. Now you need to go through the pics to find out if that sneaky bitch is stepping out on you to play the field and look around for a better offer. If you see her going on dates with someone else, you can revert to the old “frozen brick of shit” trick, or give her name and address to every mailing list and infomercial known to man. Take that you unsatisfiable whore!!!

You can’t let these people walk all over you, so another thing I like to do in the trial period, is to pretend I’m exactly what she’s looking for in a mate, and hold in my real feelings until she feels comfortable around me, then…BAM. I’m bringing a broad home from the bar at two in the morning, snorting meth off of her belly and spending all of my time trying to talk to myself in the bathroom mirror, while she steals all of the meat out of the freezer. Man, why do women have to be such assholes? I’m glad I finally found a good one. Heed my advice and ye shall prosper.

You know that chick that used to dance a lot? Every night she’d be on the floor shakin’ what she’s got,


Well…I had to pick through a lot of shit to get to the corn of that message, Birdman.  Simply stated, I don’t believe you are at all qualified to give advice to death row convicts, let alone nice, actual people.  You should take down your shingle and try to avoid counselling any person for any reason.

Now, Curious, I hear what you are saying.  I know it seems like 90 days is a long time to wait to move forward in a relationship, but your new lady has her reasons.  Perhaps she’s dated other people who turn into someone else after the honeymoon phase wears off, or has moved things a bit too fast and crashed and burned because of it.  I think that starting out on solid ground is a good idea for any relationship, and learning as much as you can about that person, while the issues of sex and defining the relationship are clearly off the table, is a no-pressure way to do that.  Maybe on your 6th or 7th date, your lady will decide that you are definitely a candidate for happily ever after, and advance you further in the ‘relationship’ game.  Regardless, setting a time-limit to explore your friendship on clearly defined terms is not a bad idea at all.

As far as being offended or flattered, I would say you should be flattered.  It’s a smart and sensible woman who knows that good things start slow and gain momentum.  She obviously likes you enough to want to see you again, and she likes herself enough to be careful and selective about her prospective partner.  I like it!  Mrs. Birdman is giving this gal a very enthusiastic ‘thumbs up’!

Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic,

Mrs. Birdman

Nov 09

Movember 9th

A lot on my mind today, so it’s just a pic and a plea for donations.


Thanks everyone,


Nov 09

I can’t sleep

My back is killing me, so I got up to take some Advil, and sit on something hard. I guess it’s been getting worse for the last month or so, but today I really aggravated something. I went up to the camp to see if Mom and Paul needed anything done, and ended up raking leaves. Oh, by the way, it’s Monday night. You probably won’t be reading this until Wednesday, because my most beautiful, kind-hearted and talented fiance did Tuesday’s post for me. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about how lucky I am to have her in my life. Anyways, I was up at the camp, and Paul was out on his watch; he’d gone up the week before to set up his blind in the honey hole. Mom had said she was going to rake up the leaves, so I grabbed the rake and helped. She is looking so tired and run-down lately, that it just tears my heart up, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s crazy how deep the ripples of cancer go when you think about it. While the person battling this whoring disease is getting the shit beat out of them, everyone who loves them is in a state of constant worry, and their family, friends and co-workers are going to feel the stress and lack of sleep that is inevitable in that situation. The primary caregiver is having to bear the brunt of everything, because they are on the front line, cooking, cleaning and basically being at the beck and call of whoever is sick. That’s in addition to running interference with everyone who calls, asks about or stops by, when the patient can’t or doesn’t want to see anyone. They also still have to do their regular duties, and try to get enough sleep to function. It takes a very strong heart and mind to keep that shit up, and my hat is off to anyone who has taken on that role, to ease someone else’s suffering.

While I was up there, I went over to Jim’s to have a beer with a couple of old friends, and I was wishing that I was back deer hunting again. I miss those days so much, that it almost felt like I was back there; sitting on the back porch, sucking back a few cold ones with the boys after an unsuccessful hunt. A little bit pissed that there was no meat hanging on the pole, but happy that there wasn’t anything to gut and skin on such a beautiful day. Curt and Jim reminded me how much I hate gutting big game. I remember the first deer we got up there. It was a clean kill that Brent got across the road from the cabin, and in the process, busted it’s shitbag. By the time we got it back to the camp, and had shared around the bottle of rum and cans of beer in celebration of a successful hunt, we started into gutting it. Now I don’t have a great stomach at the best of times, but with a belly full of booze, and my lungs full of cigars, shoving my arms inside a deer carcass wasn’t the place for me. I think I laid a trail of puke from here to Sunday, while heading for the trees. No one else could handle the stink of it either, so Jim ended up finishing the job, like he always does. He’s one guy that you could always trust to do whatever needs to be done. I learned so much about life from hanging out with those guys, and it was all life lessons, not some bullshit stories. They led by example, and never asked me to do a job that they wouldn’t do themselves.

I’ve decided that I’m going to go deer hunting next year, and every year after that, until I can’t hunt anymore. I don’t want to shoot a deer all that bad, but I can only hope that as I get older, and learn more things, that there will be some young punk kid that will come to my brothers and I for advice, just like we went to Paul, Jim, Glen, Curt and every other wise old prick that stepped foot into whatever group we were hunting in. I want my turn to sit on the watch, while a couple of twenty-somethings dog a big buck out in front of me. I’ve missed at least twelve years of comraderie, drunk by supper afternoons, and breaking the ice off the pond, so you can clean up enough to head into Apsley for the Hunter’s Ball, where there was a slight chance that a girl would dance with you. There was a much greater chance that your stepdad would wind up punching someone in the mouth, and the four of us would wind up fighting our way to the door, with the one that wasn’t old enough to drink, peeling out of the parking lot with people throwing rocks and beer bottles at us. What can you do when you’re the handsomest, most charming sons of bitches to ever grace the Apsley arena? Those guys were just jealous.

I know that there are a lot of people reading this that are against hunting, and I’m not here to say it’s right or it’s wrong, but I do know that I’d rather eat an animal that lived a beautiful, free life in the wild, than an animal who’s been raised in captivity, fed growth hormones and who knows what else, and then butchered as soon as it’s reached it’s ideal weight. The only problem is that beef tastes so much better than venison, but the farmers get a little up-in-arms when you decide to harvest a six hundred pound steer off their back field. Jesus, I offered them half, you’d think they’d be happy. Oh well, I did manage to run off with the tenderloin. Mama’s gonna eat well tonight.

Thank God, I’m a country boy,


Nov 08

It’s Movember 8th now.

I’m not doing Movember today though. You can donate if you want to, but I’d rather see any money that would be given today, going HERE. It’s a dog rescue group from Peterborough that really needs cash, and foster families. They are called Death Row Dogs in Peterborough and are trying their best to save as many dogs as they can, but they need help. Even if you could share those links, and this one, it would help a lot.

Here’s the horrible moustache

I can't even grow a shitty moustache right. Please give, to ensure people like me can breed.


Now please give to them, right now,


Nov 08

Mrs. Birdman Gets Married. The Prequel.

So here I am, trying to think of how I can make my man more comfortable as he slaves over the computer, eyeballs twitching, in a state of prolonged sleepiness.  I could let him continue on in front of this blank screen until his eyeballs explode, but I am a lady who likes to help out when I can.  I have sent him to his room for some rest, and I have commandeered the blog, and am charging full speed ahead with wedding news.

If you have been living under a rock for the past 6 months, you may not realize that Birdman and I are planning our impending nuptials in a little more than 6 months.  Holy shit.  SIX months?  I just had a wave of panic about all the crap that I haven’t done yet.  I imagine it hits most brides somewhere along the planning stage, but this SHIT IS REALLY GOING TO HAPPEN!  I am the type of person who hates being pinned down, and I let most plans make themselves, but this type of laissez-faire attitude does not go over well in the wedding world.  Every day I am fielding questions about our plans, and although I have some vague answers, mostly I am shocked that people remember or even care.

Birdman and I were going to hit the tuxedo place this week to figure out what he will be wearing at the Blessed Event, but one thing led to another and we blew it off.  Seriously, we are not going to be able to keep doing this.  Shit needs to get decided.  We have half a dozen grooms-people (Hi Yvette!) who need some instruction about attire and who are going to need this info soon.   At least half of them will have no problem going naked if something isn’t figured out soon.  Well, maybe not naked, but certainly in shorts and flip flops.

Did you notice the guy in bare feet? That will be Randy.

My maid of honour (should I have capitalized that?  It seems somewhat major…) has already got a line on her gorgeous, pink chiffon dress and she may have actually ordered it by now.  My mini-me’s (who have flatly refused to be flower girls) will need some sort of matching frocks since they are Jr. BM’s.  (That’s bridesmaids, for those of you not up on your wedding-lingo). I guess I should start thinking about that too.

I pray Jenna chooses this fetching number.

There is also food and booze to be considered.  I have half-assed lined up a caterer, and we have some big plans for a run for the Quebec border for the mother of all beer runs in the spring.  I know for sure the beer will get taken care of, because there are enough men in our circle of friends to guarantee it.  I guess the rest will sort itself out, right?

May our vehicle look like this, except without the shitty American beer.

The truth is, every time I start thinking of starting to consider making solid plans, I see something shiny and my train of thought is permanently derailed.  I need Oprah, or Dr. Phil or maybe even Maury Povich to knock some sense into me and get my ass in gear.  In fact, there is a good chance our guests may roll up to a wedding party in rags, drinking cheap beer and eating chips casually dumped into wicker bowls.  (We’ll use napkins to line them…we’re NOT barbarians!)  Would that bother anyone?  If it did, they likely wouldn’t have made the guest list anyhow.

I am really just looking forward to the greatest party I have ever thrown.  Those of you who attended my first wedding may recall my brother leaving the party in an ambulance and my aunt bitch-slapping my new step-monster-in-law in the parking lot.  There is more, but the gag-order decrees I am not to mention any of it.  Yeah, I’m definitely not looking for a repeat of my first big party, and maybe that’s where some of this anxiety comes from.   I realize people are going to have a good time, and there will be so much love that nothing like that will happen this time.  Still, I am keeping our Best Man on double duty as a bouncer.  He’s about 10 feet tall and I guarantee you won’t want to mess with him if you’ve slugged back a few too many whiskeys.  Call me superstitious, but I like to think of Joe as my ace-in-the-hole for the party that threatens to get a bit too jiggy.

You are the wind beneath my wings,

Mrs. Birdman