While I was falling asleep last night to the charming sound of my husband the Evil Overlord commanding his minions to put the smackdown on some XBOX succubi, I apparently rolled over and said,
"I have the perfect name for a bird. Gary."
"That's the stupidest name i've ever heard," he supposedly said. But I didn't know that at the time, because I was happily dreaming.
I dreamed that I had a cockatiel named Gary, and I taught him to whistle and talk. And he sounded just like Norm McDonald. And he told me that he knew of a really great apartment for rent, so we went to see it. It was lovely-- airy, bright, in this crazy Aztec temple covered with vines. There were pools and restaurants and aviaries on every floor. So I signed up and moved all my stuff in and had this awesome 4-poster bed with drapey fabric that swished in the breeze, and I said, "Thanks, Gary. You were right. This place is perfect."
And then I remembered that I had a husband, kids, and house, and I had just signed a lease and moved all my stuff, and who the heck was watching my kids all this time?
The moral of this story:
Gary is the perfect name for a bird, and never trust a cockatiel.