There is a bird in my house


As I was working this morning, I heard a squawk and looked up to see a flutter of a bird panicking in my living room.

It flew up, then towards the front door, which had light coming through the front door screen, but was closed. The bird then turned around and flew back towards the kitchen...


... right into the kitchen window.

Well, f---.

I pulled up my phone, called Mom, and declared, "I have a bird in my house."

I'm pretty sure she said something after that, to which I replied, "I have a bird in my house." I used the same intonation as the "my spoon is too big" animation, without really hearing what Mom said. She said something else, and I repeated, "I have a bird in my house."

At this point, Eric piped up, "Open the windows, close the curtains, darken any space you don't want it to fly into, and it'll find the light."

Death Count: 2


I mowed my lawn today.

This is not an action I do regularly. We have long standing stories in my family about Dad and his lawn and how long the grass grows before he mows. Extended family really, the stories are that grand and that amazing and that tall (the grass, not the tales). Let's just say that my penchant for not mowing the lawn is deeply, deeply rooted in my genetics.

The last time I mowed a lawn was for Mom and Eric. Their yard was really small, it was an easy mow. Nothing like the acre and a half of Dad's lawn.

Anyway, in an attempt not to piss off the neighbors (too much, and not past good-neighbor recovery), I borrowed Eric's lawnmower and mowed the part of my lawn that the sheep cannot reach, which is to say, my whole front yard.

The grass was high enough that, well, items can hide in the grass. Things. Nouns.

Which is to say, dead animals.