The Birds

Sunday's warm temperatures brought people out and about; I went for a walk and saw kids playing and adults taking down holiday decorations. My husband decided to wash my car, because:

• he is sweet;
• he wanted to wash the salt and sand off the car;
• he didn't purchase a car wash (and save .20 a gallon!) while pumping gas at Fletcher's earlier; and
• the birds are at it again.  

Our feathered friends haven't flown south for the winter, probably because Olney winters have been unseasonably warm recently. And like local deer, the birds seem to have found plenty to eat, as evinced by their multicolored droppings all over our driveway, cars, and garage door. Yes, you read that correctly -- garage door. How does THAT even happen? How globs falling from the sky manage to land on a vertical surface partially covered by an overhanging roof defies physics to me!

My poor husband frequently laments the birds' attraction to our cars as toilets. However, I pointed out to him that unlike the doomed people in Hitchcock's macabre classic The Birds, we are not being attacked by homicidal fowl. I asked, "Which situation would you rather be in: menaced by beasts of flight or having your car pooped on by them?"

Besides, having bird droppings land on you is supposedly a sign of good fortune. If this superstition is true, we should win the next lottery.