Tweet

Posted on July 7, 2022 by Jan Wilberg

You seem out of sorts. What’s going on?

My husband won’t move the birdhouse.

Excuse me? I just watched him dig a hole for your new birdhouse. Nice paint job, by the way.

The paint job is hideous, done by a blindfolded dog holding a brush with his tail.

That’s harsh. I think it’s an interesting abstract, a playful use of color, an unexpected burst of color in an otherwise monochromatic landscape. You should be proud of it.

Where do you get this stuff? “Unexpected burst of color.” Right. The birdhouse looks like a project for kindergartners who weren’t allowed to go out for recess. Never mind. It’s a birdhouse now.

So why move it?

It’s fine where it is. But the one next to it – the blue and yellow one – needs to move. They’re too close together. Lordy, I can’t believe I didn’t see that before.

You decided where to put them?

Yes. But I temporarily lacked perspective.

I understand. So what happens next?

My husband says we’ll move the blue and yellow one tomorrow. He said if he moved it tonight, it would be giving in to my angst.

And how do you feel about that?

Irked. I told him if he really loved me, he’d move the birdhouse tonight. But he made another gin and tonic and went back to his book. Tomorrow, he said, we’ll move the birdhouse tomorrow.

We’ll check back in tomorrow. Don’t you think the birds will be fine until then?

Category: Writing

3 Comments on “Tweet”

Marilyn Armstrong
July 8, 2022

I always have to remind myself that the birds will be fine. It’s summertime. There’s food. There are trees for nesting. Breathe deeply.

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youngv2015
July 8, 2022

I’m giggling, but I get both sides.

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Deb
July 7, 2022

Everything in threes Jan- I think you need to add another pole house and it will all be fine.

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Jan Wilberg

What happens here on Red's Wrap is all over the map. There is no single theme, no overarching gripe, no malady of my own or others that dominates. I write about what seems important or interesting at the moment. It could be about gracefully handling my own aging, being a good feminist, or finding out what it means to be a decent mother and grandmother. Nothing stays the same, here or anywhere. That's a good thing. Happiness. It's relative.

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