Birds are spectacularly stupid. And apparently not averse to coming out of pocket for an extravagance if necessary.

It’s a long one. This is therapeutic, people. And from what I understand, therapists don’t really have any interest in helping me work on my type of “issues” because apparently having birds living in your bathroom vent isn’t important unless one of them is your MOTHER or something. Or unless your mother is married to one of the birds in the vent, and now that bird is your horrible stepdad. And they are having like this weird human to avian relationship that my brain thankfully can’t figure out how to picture. Or unless your mother put them in the vent specifically to gaslight you while working with your husband and kids to make sure everyone looked at you with the pity face and performed an attention-grabbing “finger around the ear” motion whenever you talked about it. Apparently, I’m just not therapy-material. So, I’m lying on the couch, and you are sitting in the chair taking notes. Good luck to you.

Know what birds do when the weather starts to finally (FINALLY – WINTER SUCKED Y’ALL!) get nice and beautiful? They start to get all into the baby production business. Well, first they start to get into the construction business. Which I dare say some of them genuinely suck at, for real. But most of them are damn fine constructioneers. Oh, that’s auctioneers. Constructioneers is not a word. But, maybe it should be? I’m adding it to my dictionary. Avian constructioneer geniuses. Like, seriously. What are they doing in the off season, anyway? Oh right. I guess that’s when they are concentrating on the music business. But I propose they quit both. I mean come on, everybody knows the music business is a grind. Shouldn’t they get in the construction business with both feet, er claws/talons. You know, after those yammerers have left the nest, and they look at each other all, “HOLY HELL, why do we do this to ourselves year after year, Bill???? They hatch, and they are so hideously ugly that they are adorable. But that lasts only briefly. Then, I just hate them with every fiber of my being, and count the hours until I can throw them out of the nest. Gently encourage them to leave the nest.” They really should just embrace construction, instead of the laying of the eggs; the sitting on the damn eggs; the listening to the creepy, irritating, never-ending, and for-the-love-of-all-that-is-sane-and-good-I-need-some-sleep-please-stop-scritching-and-scratching-for-one-bloody-second sound of the hatching; the ENDLESS fetching of food for the bottomless pits (“They are so tiny HOW CAN THEY STILL BE SCREECHING AND YELLING AT US FOR FOOD, BILL!!”); and then finally the violent shoving (oh, sorry dear, did I push you before you were ready?) of the birds out of the nest. Then, finally it’s time for the empty nest syndrome again which is an absolute joy. Have you seen how packed that nest gets there at the end? The tempers have got to be flaring 24/7 at the end with the beak in so-and-so’s back who has been unintentionally munching on his brother’s claw since the beginning of time because of the space situation. And his brother’s claw is so seriously rank, it’s a full-time job keeping the worms down so he can grow and high-tail it outta this shit show. Also, how did his brother’s claw get so damn rank? He just hatched. What in the holy hell was he doing in that egg. It’s not like there’s any room in there to do a thing but stare at your own ass and pray that either the end comes soon, or you are cooked enough to peck out of that damn shell. Wait, did I say cook? I definitely did NOT mean cook. Ahem, I was just saying it gets crowded in there at the end. Good grief. It’s not your typical roommate situation. The things these birds know about each others’ anatomy isn’t right, is what I’m saying. (Actually, some bird out there should definitely become a psychiatrist. Oh, the fat stacks in that bird’s future….)

OK, I’m reaching the point of the post here at a word count of 1026. Nice and succinct, right? Therapeutic, people. You’re supposed to be here for me. Hey, here are pictures.

Bird Nest in a Tree – Birds Pass IQ and Constructioneer Tests


Bird Nest in Vent - Birds Fail IQ Test and Almost Certainly Constructioneer Test As Well
Bird Nest in Vent – Birds Fail IQ Test and Almost Certainly Constructioneer Test As Well

Isn’t that second picture a real charmer? That’s where the avian mental giants built their nest. Brilliant, right? Yes, I can see where you’re maybe thinking, “Hey, at least it’s nice and protected from predators and such.” Listen. That vent has a cover on it. A cover that opens from time to time. These genius birds would obviously have no way to predict when that cover would open which means they would have to spend ridiculous amounts of time outside that vent waiting for it to open in order to get inside and set up their new digs. Are you starting to see why I have fashioned them little bird capes with the words “I’m with stupid.” on them? Good. We agree. Now, imagine these fools flying around out there waiting for the cover to open with their stash of nest items….waiting…..waiting…..waiting. We drive home day after day and find various detritus on the driveway under the vent. You’d think the birds might get a clue maybe? You’d be wrong. I’m guessing their makeshift and pathetic “nest” consists of feathers, beak and claw/talon shavings, and poop. Bird songs of “We did it!” wake me up in the morning. I am NOT a morning person, and also, geez, are they stupid. Morning after morning, I have contemplated ripping open that vent and climbing in to get them. Except I’m too big. They are lucky. Really lucky. Every few days, an odor so foul it cannot be described in any language that I have mastered will emit from that space, and the house will empty with humans fleeing with silent screams of horror. The screams would be audible but who wants to open their mouths and risk that rancidness entering their body? Who I ask you? And then, hours, or maybe a day later, the smell will disappear. I can only attribute this to a cleaning crew that this bird couple has hired to come in on the regular to clean up their most heinous mess. Which is that nest made of their biological matter. Hey dumbasses, that’s where the stink is coming from. And their process begins anew. And my seething continues its slow burn.

To that cleaning crew I must say, your work does not go unappreciated. If I could tip you extravagantly, I certainly would do so.

If birds could talk….

Keeping in mind that our local birds’ nest was quite a bit more roomy just 5 days ago (Exhibit A), I imagine the conversation these days is quite a bit different since the nest is stuffed to capacity (Exhibit B below).

NOTE: They are all named George. For the backstory, see this post.

Exhibit B: Nest Overflow
Exhibit B: Nest Overflow

George I: Could I be more blurry? I’m in the foreground. I should be the center of attention with my pretty eye all highlighted. Geez, lady, you suck at photography. You should probably donate that bad boy and do us all a favor. Plus we are sick of you poking your stupid camera all up in our biz every few days. Get. a. life.

George III: Hey, do you guys hear something. George hears something. Is that the cicadas? George is pretty sure it’s the cicadas. They sound like that. Yes, they do. At least George thinks they do. George hasn’t actually met one of them.

George II: Would you two stop touching me?!? I’ve got your smelly bodies all up in my grill 24/7 and I’m now covered in your stank. I can’t get a moment’s peace with the chattering moron over here and the constant nightmare of your stupid feathers in my beak and eye. I seriously can’t take this anymore. I am officially no longer afraid of trying out this flying thing.

George III: Are you guys hungry? You heard the cicadas, right? George heard the cicadas. George hears them right now. Are they talking to George? George thinks they might be. George wishes George understood what they are saying. George is getting hungry. Hungry hungry hungry.

George II: Would you please shut up about the cicadas. And no, you don’t hear them right now. Also, you just ate, you fool.

George III: George sure does hear them. Right now right now. George thinks they sound tasty. George would like to try a cicada. You bet George would. Do you think we might eat one of those cicadas? George bets they crunch when you eat them. Wait, how big are those things? Are they big? They’re big aren’t they. Oh no, George is going to have a nightmare about giant cicadas now. George just knows it.

George II: Serenity now. <sigh>

Bird’s got his/her siblings. No vacancies at The Nest.


OK, full disclosure. We had birds last year and the year before. I bore them ill will. I’m just gonna come clean on that. But it’s because they built their nest on the top ledge of the covered front porch and, as my brother hilariously put it, used our front porch “as their personal latrine.” I believe they used us for target practice though I’m pleased to report that at no time were they successful in hitting us. Nevertheless, by the time they moved out, the front porch looked very nasty indeed. Matthew spent a lot of time cleaning that mess up, and we made sure to remove all evidence of their presence so that when they swung by this year to find a nesting place they might forget about the success of the previous location. We made sure to give glowering looks every time we entered and exited that door lest they be scouting, and when we saw a bird, we made sure to quickly explain that the ledge over the front porch was a death trap location for baby birds due to the new cat we had recently acquired and installed nearby. So, when they made their nest in the holly tree this year and we were able to enjoy these little guys while avoiding their excrement? Happy days are here again! And now, I want to pick the three of them up and hug them and pet them and squeeze them and make them mine. And name them George I, II and III.

The windows are open, the birds are singing (outside!) and my heart is full.

Andrew Freiden, you are now officially forgiven for that awful bout of crappy weather! What? Well, of course I don’t blame you, a local weatherman, for creating the unseasonably cold, wet and often snowy weather we’ve been having in the recent past. That would be ridiculous. Heh heh. Except I kinda do. I would find myself sitting there waiting for your forecast. Watching you all cute and perky as you’d begin to chat about what we’d have in store for us, then you’d deliver news of an approaching snowstorm in MARCH for the love of all that is sane and good! TWICE!!! (I think it was actually three times, but I can’t even bear to type it because even now it still seems unbearable. The puppy had to put her nether regions in that cold, wet stuff to do her business. Oh, the humanity! Oops…. Oh, the caninity!) And it was like a punch to the gut each time. From you. So, yeah, forgive me for feeling a little grumpy with you, sir. And. Wait. This is beginning to feel combative suddenly. The birds are chirping (outside where they belong!), and I’m feeling peaceful. And there is nothing finer than having the windows open and smelling the great outdoors inside my house where I can enjoy the conveniences of indoor plumbing. (Obviously, I’m not a big camper. I’d camp de-testosteroned Willie-style.) Anyway, I’m loving you now, Mr. Tall, Suited Weatherman. So, carry on with your day, sir.