I think that I might need to borrow a shotgun. To insure the quick wedding of one daughter? Of course not. To threaten the barely-teen boys who stalk another daughter? Maybe…but no. To terrify the over-twenty-one-year-old-man-child who wants to date a third daughter? Possibly… but no. It’s all about the birds. The birds have got to go!
I don’t hate birds, mind you. Despite the fact that as a child my bedroom light blazed every night for a year after seeing the movie “The Birds,” I really like birds - as long as there is a freshly Windexed pane of glass between us.
At our old house (in East Fallowfield) I attached a Brent-built bird feeder to the deck railing just outside the office window directly above my desk. My whole universe exploded with new-found joy! Suddenly I had a virtual zoo at my virtual fingertips.
A vast assortment of birds, squirrels and tiny chipmunks gathered to gorge on the birdseed I purchased in super-sized bags and stored in a Rubbermaid container beneath the smorgasbord. I had the perfect pets. I wasn’t allergic to them and I didn’t have to change a litter box.
This year, Attila did not give me a Mother’s Day gift. As far as I can remember, he never has. Lest you think he is a barbarian (the name Attila throws some) he is the most generous man I have ever known. We are simply a couple who don’t do gifts very often (at least not for each other). “Gifts” is not the “language of love” for either one of us.
I don’t think that I have ever received an anniversary gift (October 11th will mark our 29th). We don’t usually exchange Christmas presents, and birthdays? - almost never. We sort of get the things we want as we go along.
Attila and I don’t have expensive habits or hobbies. We don’t collect anything (except for children). Attila doesn’t hunt, fish, golf or boat. I don’t wear much jewelry (it gives me a rash). I don’t wear perfume or make-up, get my hair or nails done, or go tanning. I’m allergic. I am even allergic to malls.
We don’t smoke, drink, snort crack, gamble, shoot heroin, play the lottery, or have indoor pets (once again, allergic). We don’t own a single flat-screen HD TV. We don’t own an iPod or digital camera. We share one antique computer. We don’t buy movies on DVD (we can always borrow from our son-in-law’s extensive library).
Our kids are horrified by our outdated Nokia Tracphones and persistently beg us to “get a plan.” We have a plan! We don’t plan to spend $75 per month on cell phone bills!
So what gift did my incredibly generous husband enthusiastically offer up this past Monday? He announced that he was going to thoroughly clean our bedroom and bathroom. I nearly swooned. There is nothing sexier than a man who cleans.
Our bedroom is on the third floor of our house. It is, quite literally, in the trees. This does not cause a problem in the winter, but in the spring the baby birds chirp incessantly. I assume they are begging for nice juicy worms. It is soooooo loud. And so annoying.
When Attila was cleaning he must have bumped the sound machine on the bedside table. I went upstairs to use the bathroom and discovered that the third floor was hosting a bird convention. Flashback to a bad 1960s horror film! It turned out that the machine was chirping at full-blast, in perfect harmony with the nest occupants outside the bedroom window. I had achieved surround-sound (we don’t own that either).
I turned the sound machine off. I sat and marveled at the clean floor which had so recently been covered by dust bunnies encased in tumbleweed. “Twilight Zone” flashback! Nah, just kidding.
We have the sound machine under control, but the bird cacophony outside the window continues to test my patience. Forget the shotgun. I’m not the violent type. And youngins do have a way of growing up and leaving the nest sooner than we think!
