Yesterday the phone rang in Massachusetts.
"Hello?" said my Pal from MA, who is the more normal of the two of us. Which, let's face it, is not that ringing of an endorsement of her normalness.
"Can you hear me?" I whispered.
"Yes," said Pal wearily. We have been friends since we were toddlers.
"There are BIRDS building a NEST in that BIRD HOUSE I bought for seven dollars!" I hissed.
"Oh, that IS exciting," Pal said. She is as ludicrous as me about animal things. I think it's because we spent every second of our formative years together.
"I hung the stupid thing right outside the living room window and I never thought anyone would use it because it was too close to people. But THERE THEY ARE! This is the best week EVER! The wedding, a bird's nest!"
At this point my whisper was kind of a scrape-y scream. Which I'm certain was pleasant to listen to.
"What kind of birds?" asked Pal, who was a whale researcher for 18 years and knows about nature-y things.
"Well, they have black heads, then white like mullets on the side, and black bow ties–"
"Chickadees," she said matter-of-factly.
And you know she was right? I researched it on Google, when I was supposed to be proofreading statistics, and it turns out Chickadees form about four potential nests, then decide on their final nesting place. I have named the mom and the dad, who have been flying back and forth to my little birdhouse like banshees, Chick Korea (dad) and Chick-Fil-A.
Who wants to win the contest so bad? Oh, I want them to pick my nest. Edsel tore up yet another pillow, so I had some stuffing, and I oh-so-casually threw some out there yesterday in case they wanted to use it for their nest. I refilled the bird seed in the front yard feeder. I am trying to think of inviting music to play out the open window, where I continue to hiss into the phone whenever anyone calls.
"You know you can't go to your new job next week now," Pal told me.
"That's exactly what I was thinking!" I breathed. "I'm sure they'll understand. Oh, I could not be more excited if Barry Gibb stuck his head out that house hole."
"Maybe one of the babies will look like Barry Gibb," Pal offered. "He'll have on a white outfit, and a little beard."
"He'll tweet in British!" I screamed in a whisper.
So that is what is going on over here. If I could climb right in that bird house, I would. If I could invent some way to see in there, I would also do that. Chickadees usually lay six eggs, so if they pick my house (pick me! pick me! ohhhhhh, pick MEEEEEE!) I have to come up with six names for the babies. Does anyone remember back in 2007 when I had a bird's nest on my back porch in LA? At least I could SEE in that nest. This one has to remain a mystery.
Okay. Who's gonna call in sick for me my first week of work?