And this Bird You Cannot Change

I have a mentor who says things like, "If you want to be a writer, write. Write two pages before we meet next time." Usually I write reflectively about lessons I've learned, but the recent bird encampment has kept me very much in the present. For my meeting with her next week, I have written several pages about the birds--below is an excerpt, since some of you have been keeping up with the saga.

Thursday, May 19

Waiting, humanely, for the birds to grow up and leave the nest. For the first few days, I would head to the deck and hose off the bird poop that accumulated on the deck and my trash cans.

When twice-a-day hosings failed to keep up with the supply of poop (really, it was more like butt puke), I gave up and didn’t venture onto the deck. I kept watchful eye and ear on the deck, though, to discern if the bird family had moved on. All the websites gave a two-week timeline and, since our two-week anniversary was coming up, I was hopeful. I even asked my friends with the pressure-washing business to be on standby to come clean the deck and, hopefully, pull out the empty nest. Optimistic détente prevailed.

Until I used the powder room Thursday afternoon. It was then that I noticed the cover of the bathroom fan was being pushed in. The weight of my unwanted guests was so great that they were about to burst into the powder room. Unthinkable. Unbearable. Straw. Camel’s back. Done.

I grabbed the yellow pages, I Googled, I prayed. I found a nice man who explained the bird-removal process to me and who promised to come by my house on Monday. For an unreasonable fee, he would take the birds away and leave me with a vent clean of birds, nest, parasites and poop. I only had to last until Monday.

It occurred to me that my townhouse has a homeowner’s association that maintains the outside of my house. I wondered if they would deal with the birds and save me some money. I decided to email the HOA manager.

Friday, May 20th

The HOA manager responded to my email very quickly. Though unable to offer me bird removal, she did put in an order to get some vent covers installed for me. I told her that was great, that I would have the birds removed on Monday and then the vent covers could be installed and I would never pass this way again.

When I got home from work on Friday, my trash cans were moved. I went onto the deck and found the covers had already been installed on my vents. Could it be? Did the HOA contractors pull out the nest, cover the vent and leave me bird-free? Without me paying anything? Victory was mine! To be sure, I called the HOA office and spoke to a lovely receptionist who assured me that my call was not the strangest she’d received all week and that the guys surely pulled out the nest before closing in the vent.

Out I went to plant a little tomato plant that I’d been too scared to pot during the week. And as I worked, I heard the familiar “chirp, flap, chirp” coming from the vent. While relieved the birds couldn’t come out while I was on the deck, it was a short-lived sigh, because I realized they were trapped. Soon, there would be dead birds locked in my vent.

A panicked call to the HOA office and the contractors returned—a miracle as it was Friday afternoon.

One climbed up, two watched. From the safety of my kitchen, I asked him to remove the vent cover. He did and reached inside.

“Yep,” he told me, “when I was here earlier I didn’t see nothin’, and I didn’t feel nothin’, so I just covered it up.”

“They’re probably in past where it bends,” contributed the other guy. “Cut your fan on,” he instructed.

“Are you sure?” I asked, “Do you want helmets or goggles?”

Without stepping into the powder room, I opened the door and reached in to turn on the fan.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed the guy on the ladder, “That smells awful!” The other contractors agreed. Besides A SMELL, nothing blew out.

“Probably something dead in there too,” said the helpful contractor on the ground, “But they can’t get in. They’re probably pushed up against the fan, but there’s a flap there so they won’t come in your powder room.”

It’s fair to say I did not trust him. The birds remained, the contractors left.

I spoke to my pressure-washing friend and made an appointment to get an estimate on Monday. I kept my appointment with the pest control guy for the same Monday. I hoped the mother bird wouldn’t abandon her babies since the humans had messed with her nesting area. I kept the powder room closed and my fingers crossed.

Blackbird Singin' in the Dead of Night

If you've known me for any length of time, you are likely aware of how I feel about birds. They terrify me. For some girls, a snake is upsetting. For others, a spider is her undoing. For this girl, it's birds.

My mother and my brother strap on binoculars and go looking for them. They spend time and money on feeders, fancy foods, and squirrel baffles. Why anyone would want to attract birds--that's what baffles me.

At the end of last school year, a bird flew into my classroom. I opened the back door and left. Now, the beasts of the air have come a little closer to home. They have, in fact, come into my home--specifically into one of the vents in the back of my house.

Friday night I was in the laundry room when I heard the tell-tale "chirpy chirpy chirpy" (to use a phrase coined by my friend Laura). I figured they were in the dryer vent and, while revolted, I figured they wouldn't be there long. There were some unpleasant moments for the mama bird and me on Saturday as I was planting flowers in boxes on the deck and as she sat in a nearby tree squawking her dismay. Still, as long as they stayed out there and moved away soon, I was not super-worried.

Until the stench. When I went downstairs on Sunday morning, it hit me like a fist in the nose. I searched the house for its source, emptying trash cans, sweeping floors, only to find it emanating from my empty powder room.

The upside of the bird saga is this--crisis brings people together (crisis might be a little strong for some, but this is me and birds we're talking about). Yesterday morning, worried the stench was the result of something dead in the wall between my house and the neighbors', I was able to talk to my neighbors at-length. In fact, it was one of the neighbors who deduced the birds were nesting in the powder room vent, not the dryer vent. My other neighbor has offered to get me a ladder when the time for nest-extraction comes.

I've lived in this house for six years and it is strange to me that I don't know much about my neighbors. I don't even know the one guy's name! So while I'm less-than-enthusiastic about my unwanted tenants, I am happy to have reasons to talk to the neighbors.

They Told Me He Was Bad

Recently, my high school friends and I have been wrapped up in a debate: Mr. Darcy vs. Mr. Knightley. If you’re not familiar with your Jane Austen, head on over to Wikipedia and get a synopisis of Pride and Prejudice and Emma. I’ll wait.

The debate goes something like this; the girls posit that Mr. Darcy is awesome. He’s proud and haughty on the outside, but deep down he is good and kind. His pride and Elizabeth’s pride make them a dynamic, and ultimately swoon-worthy match. I contend that Mr. Knightley is a more desirable hero. When Emma is behaving badly, he mans-up and tells her about herself. Mr. Knightley makes Emma better. This has led to some lively conversation and some very unfair criticism of Jeremy Northam’s nose.

I think what’s going on, though, is the battle we ladies have been having with ourselves for generations. Good guy vs. Bad boy. Reliable and steady vs. Rebellious and dangerous.

Think about our favorite movie guys…Gee, Joe Fox, I know your conglomerate book store is going to put my humble shop out of business, but I sure do love you. Jason Bourne, you may not know who you are, or why you’re #1 with a bullet, but given the choice between you and the Paris police, I choose you! Oh, Danny Ocean, you only lied about being a thief, and even knowing that you robbed three casinos in one night, I can’t help but wait for you to be released on parole. Again.

Even in the 1930’s, CK Dexter Haven, wealthy, divorced alcoholic, stole the girl from George Kittredge, self-made mining scion. (If you haven’t seen The Philadelphia Story, put it on your Netflix queue. I’ll wait.)

Would Lost have been anywhere near as compelling if all the hot guys on the island weren’t in need of redemption?

And then there’s the worst offender of all, the one who ruined me for sure…John Preston, a man so bad we didn’t even learn his name until the closing scene of the series finale. Mr. Big, emotionally unavailable, model-izer, cheater, “the boy who cried love.” But those faults were far from our minds as we watched him pursue Carrie to Paris and declare, “You’re the one.”

That’s what we’re all hoping for, isn’t it? The declaration of, “I’ve been an idiot. I’ve done bad things, but for you, I will be better.” We want to be the one worth changing for. If it takes us years of heartbreak and drama to get there, so be it.

Maybe, at the root of this love for bad boys, there is a longing for adventure—a desire to be part of a great narrative. And if that is what my young friends are hoping their futures will bring, then I am no one to argue.

Tienes un Amigo en Mi

Once again I find myself doing my movie ticket year-in-review far from the friends who began the tradition with me back in Philadelphia. This morning I pulled my ticket stubs out of my wallet and was shocked that I’d only seen five movies in 2010. While discussing that with a friend later in the day I realized I’d switched wallets midway through the year. A quick check of the old wallet yielded five more ticket stubs. So here are the 9 movies I saw in 2010.

January 1—Up in the Air. Ah, Clooney. Great film, definitely lived up to the hype and the Oscar buzz. And, again, Clooney. He never goes out of style. Up in the Air was the first movie I saw in my quest to see as many Oscar movies as I could.

February 14—Avatar. If it weren’t for the Oscar buzz, my deep love for Titanic, and the friend who got us in for free, I probably would’ve skipped this one. It was fathoms away from Titanic. My favorite critique of this movie called it Dances with Aliens.

February 20—Valentine’s Day. Gary Marshall directing lots of famous people, what’s not to like? Fluffy, forgettable, a fine way to pass a Saturday afternoon.

February 24—Crazy Heart. This is one of those movies that sent me right out to get the soundtrack. Jeff Bridges as a washed-up country star was absolutely deserving of his Oscar. My friend Katy had to point out Colin Farrell. Country music is the last place I look for smoldering Irishmen—and believe me, I do look for them.

May 28—Sex and the City 2. How could the creators of such a smart, funny, sharp series turn out such a rotten movie? My fingers are crossed that this was the “dark” film of the trilogy (like The Empire Strikes Back) and that there is a third installment that will restore Carrie and the girls to their usual class.

June 20—Toy Story 3. My family loved the Toy Story Mania ride in Disney World, so it seemed like a fitting way to celebrate Father’s Day, a trip to see Buzz and Woody on the big screen. There aren’t enough superlatives for this one. At one point, choking on my sobs, I turned to my brother and said, “This has to end!” It was that affecting and that darn good.

July 1—Eclipse. They tell me this is the best of the Twilight movies yet. I honestly couldn’t tell—all I could think about was how tired I was of seeing Rob and Kristen. Taylore Lautner’s abs never get old.

July 2—Toy Story 3. I accompanied my friend and her three-year-old this time. He had never been to a movie and we were very worried about how he’d do with the whole incinerator thing. Surprisingly, the things that upset him most were when Woody lost his hat, when Bullseye stayed behind in daycare and when it was over.

August 17—Inception. Did I understand it? No. Did I enjoy it? Yes. Have I missed Leo? Heck yeah (refer back to Titanic comments). I’m looking forward to a second look at this one on DVD. I also remember this as a sweet occasion—seeing a movie with my friend Anna the night before she left for college.

August 28—Eat Pray Love. My friend Michelle summed it up best: she went around the world to wind up back where she started—being defined by a relationship with a man. There were many things about Liz Gilbert’s story that resonated with me and Julia Roberts is such a movie star, so I did enjoy the movie. I’m just not ready to put Liz on a pedestal as so many other women have done.

Ten trips to the theater, nine movies—doesn’t seem anywhere near my usual total. I blame the Netflix.

Don't Leave Me This Way

Sometimes it's hard to do the right thing.

Yesterday, I bought my first "real" television--real, as in, it's the TV people watch when they come over to visit. I've managed to live into my mid-30's without buying a big TV, so I've never had to dispose of one. Once, I donated a TV to the church yard sale, but a good friend and a minivan took care of it pretty easily. Today I found myself stuck with a big TV.

First, I left it by the curb. Today is my neighborhood's bulk trash pick-up, so I figured my timing was excellent. As the trucks left and the TV remained, I realized I was in trouble.

I did what any smart girl would do--I Googled. Surely some charity would come pick up my television. Nope.

So I loaded the TV onto my passenger's seat and drove to Goodwill. There, an agreeable young man told me that Goodwill doesn't take TVs, but the Salvation Army does.

Onward to the Salvation Army, where another agreeable young man informed me they weren't taking wood-paneled TVs. (To clarify: this was not a console TV from the 70's, it was just old and happened to have a laminate coating.) When the gentleman at the Salvation Army told me he couldn't let me throw it in their dumpster, I asked if he knew where the city's bulk trash facility was.

Off I went. While in transit, I called my helpful friend Emily who Googled the city's trash facilities and found that none of them wanted my television.

So, donating was a bust. Trash was a bust. Riding around with it on my passenger's seat was not an option. So I did something I'm not proud of. I drove back uptown, less than a mile from my house, less than a mile from the Goodwill that rejected me, and went to my old apartment complex. There, I stopped in front of the dumpster and unloaded my unwanted TV. I don't feel great about it. I'm waiting for someone to run the license plate on my car so the city can send me a fine.

In the heat of the moment, I wasn't thinking about Freecycle. And I've since learned there is another city facility for hazardous trash that would've taken the TV. All I can hope is that it finds its way from the apartment dumpster to that facility and that the harm I did is outweighed by my attempts to do good.

Hail to the Chief

Last night I had the opportunity to hear former President Bill Clinton offer a lecture. Here are some of my reflections:
--instead of the charismatic, "swaggery" guy I remember from the '90s, he was a laid-back Southern gentleman
--he is really, REALLY smart. His ideas for how we could create jobs and get out of the recession made a lot of sense. Some of the other things he said were so far out of my league, I glazed over.
--he has long fingers
--people still love him. From the dude who yelled, "We love you, Bill!" in the crowd to a co-worker of mine who threatened to run off with him if the chance presented itself--he is still a favorite. I guess there's a statute of limitations on sleaze.

I don't think much about politics, and I especially don't think much about the recent political past. But I have always been fascinated by the presidency. Presidents can be such polarizing figures, but love them or hate them, their job is extremely hard. As I listened to Bill Clinton speaking, I was struck by how much he must love this country to sacrifice any sense of normalcy in exchange for being its Chief.

Listening to President Clinton speak was like a trip in a time machine back to the 90's. I remembered all the Lewinsky jokes (I even emailed a friend about wearing a Gap dress to the lecture). I remembered how much money I made at my first teaching job. I remembered a bizarre day in 1992 when my friend Nicole and I went door-to-door with Clinton/Gore campaign flyers--and were abandoned by the other campaign workers and had to take a bus back to the headquarters downtown.

Now I will remember a rainy night in North Carolina when I was in the same room as a US President. It was a large room, but still...

Papa Don't Preach

When Glee came on the air, I was completely smitten. A story of high school misfits finding community in their glee club? An hour of TV peppered with pop songs, Broadway anthems and a lot of silliness? I'm. So. There. If the show got too silly, too campy, there'd be a mash-up of Gary Puckett and the Police, and everything would be all right again.

To say I'm disappointed by the second season is an understatement. It's as if that misfit high school kid has now found himself sitting at the table with the popular kids and is using his platform to teach everyone a lesson. What was once escapist fun is now an after-school special with a random guest appearance by Britney Spears.

This season, instead of a fake pregnancy and an obsessive compulsive guidance counselor, we're getting schooled. God can't be trusted. The arts are undervalued. School administration lets bullying abound. Remember when Glee used to be joyful? Dare I say it, gleeful?

I see the change in the show's mood pretty clearly in Kurt. He's been my favorite from day one. His relationship with his dad moves me. But lately, he's been angry and bitter. He's been pushing away the people who love and accept him.

And that's what Glee is doing to me. It's pushing me away with its sermonizing and angsty story lines. I'm sad about it. All last year, I loved hearing my high school friends (the real ones, not the TV ones) singing Broadway tunes and old pop songs. They were being exposed to music I've known and loved for years. Suddenly, songs they skipped on my iPod were awesome (yes you, Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart). Now, when we talk about the show, we sigh and grudgingly admit that it wasn't that great this week.

Please, Glee, remember your old friends who loved you before you ruled the school. Broaden our musical horizons and remind us to be kind to the misfits without shoving us into an intellectual locker.