01 November 2011

Billy Bob Does Not Have Lips Like Sugar

I'm not the sweet type. Sugar, that is.

I have fairly simple tastes: Black coffee, plain cake, plain vanilla ice cream, unsweetened tea. Don't get me wrong, I can pound back a bag of Reese's peanut butter cups like the best of them. That's normal.

Not that I've ever tried.


The irony of a Krispy Kreme cooking up gluten overload within five miles of my house is not lost on me. On the rare occasion I do eat there, and it is rare....I get the plain, non-glazed donuts. Mr Coffee, however, makes an effort to get diabetes in one meal. The man has been blessed with some inhumanly sick (or enviable) ability to devour half a dozen double-frosted, sugar-bomb, raspberry-filled, double-chocolate something-or-others and not slip into a sugar coma.

Mr Coffee inherited my portion of the sweet tooth. Which, fortunately for him, he also got my portion of keeping it off the scale. 

The hot, brilliant, gorgeous, sugar-eating jerk.

After consuming trace amounts of sugar, I feel like my vital organs are shutting down and Im hyper enough to vibrate bubbles out of a concrete foundation. All this aversion to sugary sweetness has turned me into one of those label readers. Sodium content, high fructose corn syrup, and how many servings they sneak into a pint of Haagen Dazs. It's criminal that you can devour 220% of your daily fat intake in one of those little Tardis like "four serving but are really one serving" pints.

Who in their lactose-fueled mind can stop half way through one of those? The Biggest Loser, we are not.

At a young age, and by young, I mean still in diapers, society is indoctrinating and molding us into becoming label readers. Doctors, media, parents, school, government-subsidized farmers monetarily motivated by the US Department of Agriculture. Who would have guessed the USDA paying off wheat farmers would encourage us to eat 6 to 9 servings of bread?!

If government tells us how to eat, it's only natural that movies and TV would follow. I remember those 1980s-era Skippy peanut butter commercials getting in on the action.

My 2nd grade sister holding up a jar of peanut butter at the grocery regurgitating through a toothy grin her best Annette Funicello imitation, "Buy this, Linda! It has good nutrition!" 

On top of this, with my label reading and natural sugar avoidance, could someone please, then, explain to me why, oh why, my teeth are falling out? Do your teeth just start to revolt once you turn 18? Once you start paying your own bills? Or do they wait until you start getting crows feet and a mustache just to mix things up? And it's not just us girls.

It wasn't until I was 24 and knocked up with my first child that I began to have teeth issues. Forget the other dangers of unprotected sex. They never mention a tooth revolt with pregnancy. Not once. Nor do they explain when you are 10 years old that avoiding proper hygiene is akin to ping hammering your teeth once you turn 25.

Brushing away a year of bad habits the night before a dentist checkup doesn't count.

Fast forward to adulthood and compulsive flossing. I have flossing picks everywhere. I'm the OCD of the dental world. Little hand flossers packed in my purse, in the van, in a bag in front of my computer. My compulsion has paid off and my hygienist loves me. However, I still need root canal, crown, have a cracked filling, blah, blah, blah... Don't even get me started on my front teeth repair. It's a long story involving roller skates, a blanket, and ramming my 7 year-old face into a steel pole.

I have my own little Toothbrushers now. I've taken it upon myself to sporadically inspire household hygiene with the Billy Bob teeth angle. I sputter out through fake plastic, black, misaligned teeth in my best redneckerson, "SMOOCH! Youse want some teeth like me?! Don'cha ever brush...hey, give yer mama some sugar."

Armed with good dose of fear, my kids have good hygiene habits for life. And if all goes as planned, I'll also have label readers that would make even Linda cry into her recommended servings of protein-filled peanut butter.

~Bee may or may not be approved by the American Dental Association

Listening to: Smile Like You Mean It by The Killers

19 September 2011

Here Say

I'm at a bit of a loss as to why I've looked at the calendar and it's now September. It was June just last week.

Little bit of a lot to catch up on.

I went to a cemetery today. No, it's not my time yet and all the kids are accounted for. No, I do something far more relaxing. Less irreversibly dead. I take photos of headstone markers.

Now, I know what you are thinking, and unless you are dead from sheer boredom reading this post, you are alive and thinking....who DOES this for fun? Cemeteries are as fascinating as their living counterparts. I love to people watch. Read obits. Find out what someone did with their life. The cemetery just shows the end part. Beyond that, a peek into someone's life: how well the marker is kept, what is left by the living, who is buried nearby. These are little glimpses into someone's life, into a place that is quite private and family oriented.

In short, I'm a nosy girl and people watching is still a favorite hobby.

You'd be surprised how many love to do this. I volunteer for an online cemetery photo database. As a curious soul, researching is brain food, piecing together family, and helping others is my altruistic bit of happiness. I get a sense of paying it forward by traipsing all over miles of grass and buried memories while getting a modicum of exercise beyond my treadmill is a fun activity. This is where the volunteers come in.

I could exercise like this. Rome wasn't built in a day but Romans didn't have relatives with cameras who canvased cemeteries. Or used treadmills or have working plumbing.

I just made that up.

One marker in particular surprised me. I promise I'm not making this up. Last name: Witchchurch. Big pentagram on the marker. I'm sure she had a big surprise after she died.

In more linear news, I had a birthday last week. thirty-garblewarbleydobble...well, it's painless. Still in my dirty thirties even though I use soap all the time. I remember being fresh out of high school and thinking that 30 was old. I certainly don't cater to that thought...pffft. But admittedly, I have been under the impression for several years now, high schoolers are looking younger and younger.

Another something-something is my schooling. Big question mark. I won't get into the hairy ordeal here. Too many decisions and options. Closed doors, closed windows, and I basically need some air. Now you're curious.

What is going on?!

See how it feels? Not fun. I'm still making my goals a reality however, reality requires flexibility and timing is everything.

Are you confused? Me, too.

Zus is in middle school now. He's picked up the flute for band class. I'm housing one budding guitarist, and an additional five musicians here. Our apartment looks like a music store exploded inside.

Lastly, Mr Coffee and I went to the beach with the family for our 18th anniversary last month. We experienced traditional Washington coast weather: overcast, cool, and a peek of sun resulting in a bit of sunburn. It was an excellent adventure to christen our new-to-us van. Seaview, WA is a lovely place to visit. Bob's Cabin Restaurant and Lounge's shrimp platter was not.

That's all I'll say about that.

Well, now I've caught you up, dear reader. Next post will probably be more exciting. Or not. I just promise to blog before I'm collecting social security. 

~Bee has lots to blab about today.

Listening to: Say by John Mayer

24 June 2011

Where Do You Live?

It's fun to "remember when". Some days I look back at myself and wonder if that's the same person. As much as I refuse to live my life back at my milestones, I'd like to think I've grown, changed, and matured. I am a sum of my experiences, whether it was grade school, high school, my busy days of singleness, a job, or living in my own apartment. I have a lot to learn, but will only improve with time and each experience. At least, that's the plan.

Nostalgia has a way of teaching: good, bad, and yes, sometimes ugly. Homeschooling taught me how to study independently; a skill that I've used throughout my life.

High school taught me that I had a demented sense of humor and was far from the 'in' crowd. Social awkwardness and insecurities in the flesh. Friendships were far and few between, but nonetheless important and life-lasting.

Former jobs, former classmates, former activities...all of which were present to mold me and make what I am today.

As for the ugly? Do I need to explain I went to high school in the 80's? The era was chock full of fashion disasters and silly fads. Again, all of these things make me who I am today. Even my irrational fear of blue eyeshadow and painted on jeans.

AquaNet with banana clips. Hammerpants. Carrying around that boom box.

The biggest downside to nostalgia is believing that any of those days were better than today. I enjoy reminiscing like the next person. I have friends and relationships for years, if not decades. I wouldn't trade these for the world. They make my "now" better. I hope, in kind, I will do the same.

In a nutshell: Learn. Don't forget. Move on. Live in the now. Be the sum of your experiences and work at making your present, the very next best day.

~Bee is listening to Life Is Beautiful by Vega 4

22 June 2011

Raise Your Hands If You're Sure

"What on earth does 'moded' mean?"

A few posts back I spoke of moded people, thinking to my old school self, "Self, I am so hip and getting down and jiggy with it."

"Like, for shizzle," says the white girl.

Apparently, there are old school terms and then there is old, old school. Even the old schooliest might not know what "moded" meant. The actual meaning of the word "moded" derived from "moated", in the medieval days when you would get stuck on the moat and look stupid. You would have to swim to dry land, across rank water full of people-eating eels or the Loch Ness monster or something.

Yeah. I just made that up.

If I read my urban dictionary right, it means: inyerface, burned, dissed, facejob, owned. A derivative of the word "demoted".

My sisters and I flung this word about often growing up in So. Cali. It was the ultimate burn, especially toward our neighbors. Calling names was nothing new. Almost a rite of passage, like high school prom. Or a first date. Or cleaning untended liquid broccoli from your first apartment fridge. As kids, we were rebels, calling the neighbor kids, "Ni**erpoos". They in turn, called us "Honkey Trash".

HUD apartment housing, folks. Doesn't get any better than this. Apparently, it takes a village to raise a child, and that same village to make your kids racist.

Not a shiny moment in my childhood memories but here is one shinier from long ago. I'm a greenie. I recycle.

Fifth grade was a very hard year for me. I discovered boys. I discovered Lawman jeans were cool. I discovered friends could stab you in the back and that hygiene couldn't be taken care of by a shake of baking soda.

You see, my parents were under the opinion that with four girls, deodorant was a commodity we could do without. The notion of buying deodorant for a second grader was probably not on their radar and baking soda was cheap and always available in the kitchen. Bad news for me.

I have always been a Sweaty Betty. (no offense to Betty). The payoff to looking like someone who is detoxing is that you have great skin, but again, one is always sweaty. The bane of my existence has been B.O. related from the start of second grade.

I recall that dark day when a parent handed us four girls a set of shakers to share. These shakers were rather like the red pepper flake dispensers at the pizza parlor, except these babies were full of baking soda.

To shake. Into my pits.

It doesn't take a science major to know that baking soda is prone to clumping in wet environments. And boy, did it.

Every morning I would faithfully shake baking soda into the caverns of my arms with the hopes I'd ward off smelling like a 10 year old couch in a frat house. I'd end up spilling white powder on my clothes and hating the moment that would come a few hours later. That moment, that dreaded moment, of catching wind of my fragrant..er..., flagrant self.

Being an odoriferous sort, I would nearly die of embarrassment when I would nonchalantly raise my arm and a small clod of greyish baking soda would fall out of my armpit. It would happen at the most inopportune times. And no boy would come within ten feet of me. Who knew that giving it another few years and I'd be modeling swimsuits for a living? How is that for moded? But for my fifth grade year, I stood three heads taller and was marked with sweat stains and raging B.O.

I would pray, "PLEASE don't let there be clods in my pits. PLEASE don't let their be clods in my pits." It was mortifying. By mid morning though, you'd think my body was having some gruesome white clod fall out.

Despite my baking soda pits, B.O., and dusted t-shirts, I had trouble making friends. I remember one morning, going over to my desk to start my school day. I came eye to eye with a gigantic, sunshine yellow, toile-covered basket perched upon my school desk. This was not any basket, it was a JEAN NATE' bath and body basket. I stood dumbfounded, eyes glazed in glorious wonder over who would be so kind to do that? Soap, lotions, a little deodorant, and more soap....all packaged in it's beautiful, golden yellow glory. I was so excited. I felt special.

I didn't realize the assistant teacher was giving it to me because I was emulating the Bog of Eternal Stench. My teacher may have thought that I (or my parents) needed some help in the hygiene department. I gather she didn't have a polite way of saying, "No offense but you smell like a sheep herder!" My stepmom became unglued (and rightly so) when she found out one of my teachers gave me body products. Why it was such an offensive gift, I wondered. I had my baking soda, right? Naturally, I didn't understand until it was explained to me how the teacher should have addressed my parents first.

And queue the deafening sound of a 5th grader's feelers being put through a proverbial meatgrinder. 

Everyone has an awkward stage in their childhood. I had big teeth, a bean pole body, mean school mates, and awkwardness all poured into a pair of Lawman jeans.

That was my fifth grade year in a nut shell.

I'm thankful now for those character building lessons. Armed with deodorant, my fifth grade year could have been easier. I could have forgone the embarrassment but I am now better equipped to empathize with my kids once that time comes...and it will...even if I will never, ever, ever enjoy red pepper flakes on my pizza.

You can be Sure of that.

~Bee never lets you see her sweat

Listening to: Animal by Dash & Will

07 May 2011

Oster Isn't Evil Either

"Do you want to go to a Moms group with me?"

I have a friend, let's call her April, that decided that attending a Moms group with me would be fun. She admitted never having been to this one before. She'd heard about it through the grapevine.

The Mom grapevine is pretty awesome. It has been a longstanding tradition and wealth of knowledge to Moms all over the planet: the best consignment stores, what wine goes best with canned cheeze and ritz, the best stance against a penguin attack, or juicy stuff, like instructions on how to effortlessly cheese off the PTA crowd.

Shouting out, "I OBJECT, YOUR HONOR!" (this is pure gold) in the middle of a heated debate over why students should be forbidden to wear band t-shirts.

This time, news of a Moms group came down the grapevine. A secret club held in a public place. Lots of moms. Seasoned moms. New moms. Stepford Moms. Realistic Moms. Moms who have developed an unfortunate interest in sensible shoes. Moms with SUV's the size of small countries (complete with sticker of a half, smashed-in baseball mounted on the back window).

This was women en masse needing a little break from the daily grind to partake of strong coffee, breakfast casseroles, and delicious gossip from the Mom grapevine. 

April is an amazing friend and I, trusting her judgement of all things Mom-Groupy, said I'd go with her. My kids are out of the toddler phase and in school. However, the draw was not the meeting in particular but hanging out with one of my favorite bloggy/oxygen world peeps. Coffee, breakfast, and meeting like-minded women were just a bonus.

I was quiet at this meeting because a)I only knew one other person, b)it's easier to count the available exits when you aren't engaged in conversation with someone else, and c)a closed mouth catches no feet.

I'm not one for big group meetings. The older I get, the more comfortable I am in my own skin which affords a nice balance of quiet and deeper friendships with those I do open up to. Friends like April who take me to Moms meetings and help me not to laugh outloud when someone says something we could turn into blog fodder.

It's rude to laugh at a group speaker. I think I learned that from the Mom grapevine...or Horders, or something.

I sat quietly and read the Four Bean Enchilada recipe in the Moms Group flyer while April inspected the contents of her purse. She was feeling a bit left out only knowing one or two other moms there. I brought her back to reality serenading her with a short rendition of the Space Ghost song, "I Love Beans". She then thanked me profusely for coming with her.

I did have fun. The two speakers were idealistic and conservative but to each their own. The ladies at my table were really great and asked how April and I met. We answered proudly, "Blogging!".

This is why the irony of the Moms Group topic was not lost on me: Technology. How to use our time with technology wisely, how technology can negatively affect our families, and how to free yourself from technology addiction.

Technology addiction? I don't understand those words together.

 I believe the general consensus was that Facebook is evil, the web is a tool (yeah, keep reading), Facebook is evil, you must give 110% to your family regardless of the impact on your own person, and that Facebook will ruin your life, waistline, marriage, etc...

It turned out that out of the 9 women at our small group table, nearly half of us had jobs or demands that required technology. A real estate job. Web developing. Online school. Web design. As April so sagely pointed out, technology is not going away.

She found that nugget of wisdom on Wikipedia.

I had to speak up at our small group table. When it comes down to brass tacks, no object is inherently good or evil. Man makes it good or evil. I pointed out to the women at our table that no matter your view on technology, the idea that the internet or smart phones, or videos are evil is missing the point.

The issue is lack of self-control.

For instance, you walk into your kitchen twice a day, pull out your Oster blender and make a giant chocolate shake.You gain weight and can't wear your skinny jeans anymore. Who gets the blame? The evil blender will not take responsibility for your lack of self-control.

One woman shared, "I was online every day for 30 minutes and my husband finally came to me and said, 'You have a problem.'"

(and here, you judged me for laughing just a minute ago)

If Mr Coffee ever did that to me.....no. I take that back. He would never be that opposite of smart.

This dude sounds like fun. Doormatty Wife fun. If I'm a stay-at-home mom and I have a clean house and my tasks for the day are done, why not go online or dive into a book.

Reality is this: to make myself happy and healthy for my family, I need some down time. Mr Coffee needs his down time. Alone time. Time out. Time for me.

My daughter says that even sharks and astronauts have alone time.

Well, yeah.

She's 8. She's really smart.

Another woman shared that Facebook made her have discontent in her life, "My girlfriends get together without me. Aunt Judy went on vacation to Hawaii. A friend got flowers from her husband. So-and-so got a new car... "

Facebook made her feel discontent. It MADE her do it. Apparently, Mark Zuckerberg didn't just steal from the Winklevoss twins, he's now stealing your peace of mind through Facebook.

That Facebook is one powerful bastard.

The fact remains that indeed, a Facebook user may very well feel discontent with their life. Jealousy, envy, insecurity, and a covetous mindset has nothing to do with discontent. It's that that evil Facebook's fault.

Or you could just blame it on the blender.

~Bee is blaming New Balance trainers for losing weight
Listening to Brighter Discontent by The Submarines.

24 April 2011

I'm A Sensitive Moron

My van has died and I want to set it on fire and roll it off a cliff.

I can be positive. I'd do it with a smile. The smile part has you puzzled. I can feel it.

I was lucky enough to have The Anti-Christ lose power in our apartment parking lot. It was only a matter of pushing the van back into a parking space. (read: nearly lose my salvation and try to throw my back out.)

The mechanic says it's electrical and the electrician is out for two weeks. I allowed myself the human emotion of "daaaaamnit" to resonate throughout my brain, took a deep breath, and then took it in stride.

I had a fairly busy week and weekend planned. This week will be busy, too. Movies to be seen. Eggs to hunt. Live music to be heard. Carpool duties. A pregnant mom to coach.

I believe character is birthed from bad days. This is how I manage to be positive about being negative. Positively negative. I usually laugh over stupid stuff like this. Crying comes to mind but what can I do?

I laugh. I laugh and tell myself it could be worse as I nearly strain all the muscles in my right side just pushing my van around the parking lot by myself. Like a moron.

I could have easily strained my left side, too. I could have been 20 miles from home. See? Positive thinking here.

I ended up staying home, reading, spending time with the family, and playing Words With Friends on my phone. It's like online Scrabble. I'm not very good at it. I haven't played Scrabble since I was in my teens. I'm managing an average of 325 points per game which is ironic because that is also my golfing average. So, I guess not all is lost.

In other news, I decided to beef up my bookshelves because the 1500 books I currently own is not enough blatant consumerism. That and I've read just about everything here. Second-hand shops are a goldmine of books on the cheap. 1st editions are also a fairly common discovery. Hand over a $20 bill and leave with 15 to 20 books.

Last week, I found a travel book for my son who has taken a sudden interest in Japan. I thought he would be completely beside himself when I gave it to him. It went something like this:

"Hey, Titus. I haaaave something for you."

Sing-song voices are most necessary when revealing a surprise.

"What is it? What is it?"

I have two boys. I've given them different names and birthed them 18 months apart but they still have not figured out the concept of autonomy yet. They do everything together. Peas in a pod. Like conjoined twins without all the awkward dating and tailored clothes.

Titus shows up first, "Did you get me something?"

I beam with motherly pride and joy. I'm so proud of myself for not only encouraging him to learn but also for finding his book for under a few bucks.

"I got you a book......." I pause for effect, "on...." I whip out the book and grin. At this point, I probably look like a young Jack Nicholson audition for the Joker.

Max shows up as I'm holding the article in question. They both look at me blankly. Max is the first to speak.

"A Honk Kong travel book?" Titus takes it from me slowly and looks at the cover like I've handed him a book on quadratic equations.

"Yes! Isn't that awesome. I thought you'd be excited?" I asked him, puzzled as to why he wasn't hugging me and calling me the "Best Mom Ever".

Titus still hasn't said anything. Max meets my eye and deadpans, "Mom. Titus likes Japan. That's Hong Kong. As in Hong Kong, China........Not Japan." He states the last bit slowly because it has become painfully obvious to him that I've ventured into Dunceland (population 1), and am in dire need of all the help I can get.

Now, before you believe me to be completely geographically challenged, I will say that I am unequivocally, completely geographically challenged.

In my defense, I already know.....believe me, I know....that Hong Kong is in China. If you plow through the travel books at the Goodwill, the smell of dust and lord knows what else will permeate your delicate tissues thus rendering you, the potential book buyer, incapacitated and well, moronic. This, to the point of not knowing what state you are currently living in, let alone remember what cities go with what countries.

China is the big one, right? Japan is the little island-y one, right?

Seriously, though. Geography has never been a strong point for me but my brain apparently went on vacation to one of those tropical islands where they have white sand, blue skies, and cabana boys to fetch yummy drinks that come with little, tiny Barbie umbrellas. I couldn't tell you anything more, as my brain wouldn't be able to identify that island either, nor point it out on a globe.

Online map puzzles help a little but I felt pretty foolish (read: like a really, really big moron) that my boys witnessed what could only be described as a total, epic brain fart of geographical proportions.

Or witness one of those brain vacations that smells like the beach and coconuts. It's lovely there. I would not blame my brain in the slightest for not wanting to come back.

I pride myself in my sensitivity to diversity and other ethnicities. I have traveled the globe. Studied other cultures. Learned about the world beyond my little life bubble and continue to learn a little about a whole lot of things. But when I forget things I know...like wearing deodorant, or eating. Or knowing where Hong Kong is? I have to laugh at myself.

Go ahead. Laugh it up. Mr Coffee did. He kissed my forehead and told me not everyone can be in a completely perfect "state".

Yeah, he totally went there.

~Bee is listening to Your Touch by The Black Keys

02 April 2011

Speed Writing and Ankle Grabbing

I pretty much guarantee this will be a bumpy ride of a post.

I've been writing a lot and an exercise for writing is speed writing. I'm not particularly fond of it. It's not my style, but it's writing exercise to beef up my wordsmith butchery. Speed writing is to write what comes to mind. Scary for me and a nightmare for you. In some cases, this can be an incredibly stretching exercise. In other cases, more like an exorcism. And some cases are Samsonite and are getting their handles broken off at the airport after being re-routed through Nigeria.

You can only guess which category I'm fitting in: exorcism. My head keeps spinning and I'm vomiting green goo as we speak.

I'm sitting here at my desk and admiring my pile of papers I've managed to accumulate. Not papers, like newspapers because we don't get the newspaper, but mail and school papers we have in tree trunk loads.

I should be more diligent in opening mail, as I have in the past. No, it's more fun to smoosh a papery path to my monitor so I can see my screen properly. Not having a surface to dust is just a bonus.

The truth is fairly simple: I haven't been too excited to read that Geico still wants my business and my electric bill is due. Even though I pay it online. The electric bill, not Geico. I know, bad news doesn't change with time. Of course, good news doesn't change either. We've had a live, warm body of an insurance agent that has kept our business since Mr Coffee was 15, growing chest hair, and drooling over Camaros. Let's just say it's been a while. So, we don't switch to Geico to not save a lot on car insurance.

I'm sorry. Double negatives in writing are confusing and a no-no. Just don't not roll with it.

Speaking of rolling, my insurance has gone up a tad in this term, which makes me wonder how it can with a 14 yr old van that is losing value and we haven't claimed anything on the insurance except for three windshields in the last 18 years. It's kind of a funny concept to think that insurance companies are betting that you will get in an accident. You are betting them you won't and show it by paying them to think you will get in an accident. That's almost as fun as double negatives.

I think insurance is taking a page from the gas companies and banks. It's from the chapter, "How To Make Your Customers Turn Around and Grab Their Ankles."

Nothing like a reference to your Hey Now to get your attention. Crude? Perhaps (sorry, Mom) but I don't write the book so I'll let you take that how you will.

Not will, like death and taxes, and Great Auntie popped off years ago blessing you with a ton of money. It's will, like "however you want to take it." kind of will. Because, yes, Great Auntie would have stroked out long ago at the cost of gas prices. She'd also raise a missing eyebrow, thanks to too much plucking in her younger years, at the banks customer service that holds a fee of $5 to talk to someone other than an automated message.

Your business is important to us. Please hold for eight years for the next combative customer service representative.

The only good news about Great Auntie stroking out, because face it - she's your favorite, is that you'd be willed enough money to never worry about money or gas prices. Banks would also treat you differently because you had giant bank accounts. Like, a Starbucks built at the end of your driveway and a swimming pool full of money in your basement.

Still...I'm not changing to Geico.

~Bee says, "Not in a speed-writing minute."

Listening to "You Are A Tourist" by Death Cab for Cutie

24 March 2011

Early Birds and Punctilious Worms

It's said "The early bird catches the worm".

I think I'm OCD enough to debate this.

You see, in speaking of fowlish punctuality, the statement suggests a bird's ability to also appear on time and/or late.

Logically, punctual and late birds both catch the worm or a)early birds would be "birds" due to every bird possessing the same timely habits, or b) anything other than "early" would then fall out of the sky as a result of malnutrition, starvation, and irreversible deadness.

I surmise that only the most agile bird could indeed "catch" a worm, early or otherwise and most likely owing to claws or lack of opposable thumbs. Not to mention the unlikelihood of any worm enduring the bird's prompt schedule.

Bird and worm, for sake of argument, may or may not live according to the same time-table but we'll assume worm's schedule is relative to the early bird's or, theoretically speaking, the "bird" as a whole to make the statement more logical.

A proper quote would indicate that "birds catch worms".

Unfortunately, this modification unintentionally makes this quote is rather boring.

In setting to right silly notions of birds catching anything, we also ponder fowl biology.

Naturally, as predators go, birds don't "catch" their food. Instead, birds traditionally yank worms out of the ground with a complete disregard of worm's timing as it pertains to the bird's presence and subsequently adding to the worm's demise. Again, opposable thumbs.

Prudently altering the quote dynamic to reflect these truths creates another bit a quote perfection,

"The bird, fully ignorant of schedules, pulls with talons sharp, the equally ignorant worm from the earth and devours it."

So when do we get to hold a bird in the hand and estimate value to the two birds in a bush? Not today.....

(And this is what my brain does waiting 30 min for a Health Occ Advisor to change my major)