Posted by: WindnWaves | February 28, 2014

Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow

My husband and I bought our house a year and a half ago. We noticed a pair of sparrows were making a home for themselves in our attic, gaining access through a broken screen at one of the vent holes. Well, these 2 lovebirds, Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow, came back this year.  I suppose they’ve lived here longer than we have. Never the less, this is my house now, and I do not like the thought of a bunch of bird poop in my attic, where I store my children’s hand-me-downs.

Last week we had our roof redone. I took this opportunity to address the missing screens all around the house, and asked if they wouldn’t mind replacing them.  Before he placed the screen over the entry to Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow’s home, I gave the wall and ceiling a good bang for a minute to be sure they were not home. Even more than poop, I hate the image of 2 dead birds greeting me when I go to retrieve the bins of 12-month girl clothes.

The roofer screened the entire premise, and I was happy to know that my attic was now guarded against intruders. The next morning, as my 2 children and I sat at the dinning table to eat breakfast, I watched out the window as poor Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow frantically danced around trying to gain access to their home. Worse, it was our first true rainy day of the season – cold and wet outside. I almost shed a tear of pity and remorse watching these 2 crazed birds, homeless, helpless, cold. Then visions of a deserted nest filled with eggs, or worse, fledglings, popped into my head.  What have I done?!  I felt like a heartless landlord who performed an illegal lock-out. Then, reasoning came back to me. It’s only February, they have only just begun making their home. If they were able to find a nest here, they can find one somewhere else. I’ll go on with my day, and I will forget the whole thing.

After breakfast we run off to Jazzercise class. Sweat my butt off for an hour, not once thinking about Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow. Last song of the class, stretching and cooling down, the instructor points out to the class the bird outside. I’ve been taking Holly’s class for over a year, usually twice a week, and never has she made mention of any birds. She talks a lot about her sons and her horse, but never birds.  For most of that final 4 minutes of class she’s saying things like, “look at those birds going crazy in the rain,” and “we have to look out for those little guys, you know,” and  “birds are so great.” Is she talking to me!? It’s like she was my conscience. As I’m bent over stretching my hamstrings, a few tears mixed with the sweat dripped down my nose.

I went home, to the back where Mr. and Mrs. Sparrow were still flapping around, confused, yet determined, and gently peeled back the portion of screen covering their entry. I am happy to report that this morning, as I lay in bed nursing my baby, I could here the delicate pitter-patter of little bird feed over my head. Then I got up and took a pregnancy test. Negative! (thank goodness!)

P.S.  My mother’s post on FB today was about a bird asking some humans to help him remove some porcupine quills from his face. I am guilt-free now, but come on people, enough with the birds!

Posted by: WindnWaves | July 6, 2012

As Simple As Chopsticks

From time’s inception women have been asking themselves or their therapists, “What is my husband/boyfriend thinking? Why won’t he talk to me? What is going on under that tough exterior?”  Whenever my thoughts venture into this arena I just remind myself that my husband is as simple as chopsticks. Before you tell me that chopsticks are not easy, let me tell you a little story.

I worked at a sushi restaurant when I was 18. I love Japanese food, and it was destiny 13 years later when I met my husband, whom is Japanese. He was impressed with many things, but my use of chopsticks surprised him the most. His family, too, were impressed that I could successfully feed myself with those 2 precarious sticks. “Who is this white girl that knows our culinary secrets?”, they seemed to ask. I think they would be shocked to see that there are chopsticks littering every food-court in the US, right next to the Panda-Express trash bins!

But, that is all beside the point. Knowing that we regularly eat with chopsticks, my sister brought us a gift from her vacation to Hawaii – 2 sets of hand carved, wood chopsticks. However, she, like myself, failed to notice the slight difference in the style from our other chopsticks. They were Chinese chopsticks, not Japanese. I know, what’s the difference, right? At closer inspection the Chinese style chopsticks have blunt tips rather than pointed, and they are a tad longer. So, when I put them away in the chopstick bin that lines the front of my silverware draw, where the other sets lay flat, these new chopsticks do not fit, but instead rest on the lip of the bin.

My husband was polite to my sister thanking her for the thoughtful gift and never mentioned the goof, though, he was quick to point it out to me when we were alone. That’s why I thought it very peculiar that he always pulls these new chopsticks out come dinner time. These seem to be his favorite now even though he snickered at them. Was he snickering, or just stating facts? Why even say anything?  Is he just using them to tell me without words that he appreciates my family?

My husband is, otherwise, a very simple man. I had him figured out within a week of dating him. I assume most men are just as uncomplicated as mine.  He doesn’t appreciate variety in clothes like I do, and will wear the same tee-shirt until I make off with it and wash it. He has one hobby he does every day/weekend and never tires of it. Set a meal in front of him, doesn’t matter what it is, he gobbles it down with moans of satisfaction, not because it was delicious, but because he got to eat and didn’t have to do anything. Have sex every night and he smiles all day. Other than that, he could take it or leave it.

So, it was perplexing to me that he evidently liked these new chopsticks more than the rest. Not because I thought he would prefer the others, but because it struck me as odd that he had a preference at all. After a few weeks of washing and stowing the new Chinese chopsticks only to find them laying adjacent to my bowl at the next meal, it finally dawned on me. He does not have a mysterious inner quality like the hunks on romantic comedies always convey. He is after all, the simple man I fell in love with. He always grabs those new chopsticks because they are always on top.

Posted by: WindnWaves | May 13, 2010

Crash

The bed sways violently and I am rocked awake from fitful sleep, as if an earthquake just hit.  Keenly aware that a stranger has just crawled into the lower bunk, I quietly feel for my phone that I have tucked under the pillow.  It lights up at the tap of a button, and I can see that it is 1:42 am.  Because I have a paranoia about forgetting to set an alarm, I scroll to the alarm page on my phone to check.  Yep, it’s set to 6:00 am and it is “ON”.

Now fully awake, with the help of the noisy AC buzzing near my head, I begin to wonder who is underneath me.  I try to push the noise and my curiosity to the side so that I can return to my shallow rest, when a third factor develops: I need to relieve my bladder.  “Great!” I am thinking.  I crawl to the foot end of the bunk, firmly grasp the foot board, and swing one leg over.  My toes reach down in search of a foothold on the side of the bunk, and contact.  Once in place, I swing my other leg over and my foot begins a wild hunt for something sturdy to step onto.  Another step, the nearby bunk, how far down is the floor?  I can’t see a thing.  I feel a stool conveniently placed next to the beds and I make it to the floor safely.  Wow, 34 and I’m sleeping in a bunk-bed.  This was fun when I was a kid.  Now, it’s just scary.  I mean, I could break my ankle and have to take time off of work just from getting out of bed.  Next time I’ll have to remember not to drink too much water too late.

Returning from the bathroom, I see the strangers face illuminated by the light emitted from her cell phone.  “Hey, I’m Tonia.”  “Hi, Kimberly.”  “Okay, goodnight.”  “Night.”  And I clamor back up to the top bunk.  Twelve beds in this apartment and my bunkmate is the only one that shows up tonight.  What gives?

5:47 am and I’m awake again.  Not shaken awake this time, just anxious to get home.  I pluck up my phone from under the pillow to turn off the alarm.  As I get out from under the covers, I pull them up and straighten them out, shaking the whole bunk vigorously to Kimberly’s agitation, I’m sure.  I carefully climb down.  At least there is a sliver of dim light coming through the window to show me the way.  In and out of the shower and I dress back in my uniform that reeks from 5 straight days of wearing it in the cockpit.  But, I have to wear it so that I can get through security and onto the plane with ease.  How is a stinky uniform better than clean jeans and a clean tee-shirt?  Beats me.

I walk out of the Crash Pad leaving it completely void of any evidence that I was ever there even though it’ll be only three days until my return.

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