A family of not-so-cute birdies have made a home in a tiny hole where some siding of my house has disintegrated off. They built a sort of duplex-nest right on the other side of the wall where we sleep in our bedroom.
"I told you so," I said to Dan at the crack of dawn a few weeks ago when the birds heralded the 'morn with loud tweets (and I mean old-school-tweets, not Kanye tweets). These tweets were so raucous they sounded fake, like a gaggle of teenagers were standing outside my house, drunk and shouting.
"You NEED to destroy that nest," I cried for the umpteenth time. But I know why Dan won't do it:
A) It requires getting a ladder (and personnel) much taller than the ones we have; I'm not sure how to get up that high, actually.
B) Dan doesn't have the heart to pull the nest out and displace the baby birdies.
C) Awww!
"I'm not a killer," he said, rolling over and blissfully going back to sleep, leaving me to ponder the metaphor (birds/nests/home/marriage) in my deep, time-wasting way.
I've been manic, getting my house in spring shape. I want a new kitchen, especially, but frak it, the cost. Better to hoard the nest egg for the great unknown future.
As I type this, this black-feathered, arrogant bird LITERALLY flew by my window and stopped for a second on the phone wire. She's looking at me. She has a huge twig in her mouth. She's heading to the hole. She's going to make that nest bigger. She's such a bitch!
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