The @#*($&@#($@#*&$ birds are trying to make a nest on our porch again. The second I heard their evil, squawky peeps, I felt as though I had PTSD, and I immediately twitched tourrettes-like. I exploded out of the house, waved my hands like a freakin’ crazy lady and screamed “Get outta here!”
My kids came running over while I joked to my husband that the birds were doing the ‘hippity dippity’ and trying to make our porch their home again. My nine-year-old giggled uncontrollably. I slammed the door. “NOT ON MY WATCH!” I yelled while motioning a fist pump as my husband laughed at me.
My husband resumed whatever he was doing when I heard the all-too-familiar squawks again. “Dammit, babe – get out the flyswatter!”
He grumbled at me, “Look, babe -if you want to play ‘Birdie Birth Control,’ be my guest. Leave me out of it.”
‘Birdie Birth Control’ – just a typical day here in the Douglas household.
(By the way, in case you’re wondering what the deal is with the evil porch birds, and why I’m all GET OFF MY LAWN about ’em, click here for the hilarious backstory.)