Posts Tagged ‘bird’

There are certain things that I will never understand, despite being able to take apart an engine and rebuild it with extra parts to spare.  Actually, I can take practically anything apart, put it back together, and have parts left over every time.  But I digress.

The confusing subject of this diatribe is the bathroom.  You wouldn’t know that from the title, but bear with me please.  Sometimes it takes a while to get these things out.

I am not a complete idiot (I am a partial idiot.)  I know what the general purpose of the bathroom is.  I’m not entirely sure why it is called a bathroom, since we more often use it for other things.  Showerroom?  I suppose it sounds better than the peeroom.

It was done in the peeroom, with a wet towel, by Miss Scarlet.

That should keep you thinking for a while.  Anyway, distraction is not the intent of this blog, despite the fact that I am easily distracted.

I suppose I should qualify my subject (I don’t know why, but I will do so anyway since it is my blog and I can clarify if I want to.)  I am talking about bathrooms that have a definitive female personality.  You know the kind I am talking about.  I am not talking about the port-a-potty at the job site.  I understand those.  They make sense, even if they don’t always smell good.

I am talking about restroom facilities with ambience.  These are facilities with household items that do not belong in a bathroom.

I can’t bring myself to call it a powder room.  I have not—will not—put powder on in a bathroom, or any other room for that matter.

There are candles.  Since Thomas Edison shocked the world (and himself,) there is no good reason why there should be candles in a bathroom.  Especially if they are lit.  And, especially if I burn myself on them. And don’t even get me started if they are scented.

I once went to the bathroom and ate half a bowl of something called potpourri.  I thought it was a trail mix or something like that.

There are often little carved soaps.  I can’t count the times I have been berated for washing my hands using the little decorative soaps the hostess displays.  Why are they there if I can’t use them?  Who decorates with soap anyway?  They look like individual, personalized soaps.  I came out of the bathroom, and I told the next guy going in, “don’t use the rose.  That’s mine!”

This past holiday season, I had the opportunity—well, several times—to use the facilities at a party I attended.  For some unknown reason—unknown at least to me—there was a birdcage hanging in the corner.  I looked and the bird seemed a little under the weather.  I felt sorry for him—or her since I can’t tell the difference without lifting their feathers—so I offered Tweety an hors d’oeuvre.  (Despite what it might taste like, there is no hors meat in them.)  It was a little piece of crap—I think they call them water chestnuts—wrapped in bacon.  I have a few others in my pocket for later.

Well, I shoved the treat in his face, and he fell dead.  I mean he dropped off his perch to the bottom of the cage.  I killed him.  Maybe it wasn’t a water chestnut.  Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten a plate full of them—although that would help explain why I was back in the pooproom again.

I tried to revive him.  I tried to give him mouth to beak, but I think I blew too hard.  He shot away like a deflating balloon.  I used CPR, but his little body just crunched under my fist.  I think I pressed too hard.  His beak fell off.

Thar she blows!

So there I stood with the hostess’s dead pet, in front of the toilet.  Well, what would you do?  I flushed the little bugger and went about my business, hoping that it wasn’t the water chestnut or a piece of bad bacon that did him in.

Back at the party, I pulled my wife aside, and I told her what had happened.  If I keeled over and my nose fell off, I wanted her to know it was the hors d’oeuvre.  I also did this because sooner or later they would go to feed Polly a cracker or a poisoned water chestnut and discover that she (or he—I forgot to look before I flushed) was gone, and I knew from experience I would be blamed.

My wife told me that the birdcage was a decoration.  It was a fake bird.

Did I feel like a partial idiot or what?  I spent five minutes doing mouth-to-beak and chest compressions on that feathered bag of sawdust.  (It did, though, explain the after-taste in my mouth.  I had always thought that parakeet would taste like chicken.)

I was glad the bird wasn’t real.  I wasn’t too keen on handling a dead bird after all, and I had a hard time washing my hands after the funeral.  I couldn’t get the soap to lather at all.  I figured it must have been due to hard water.

“That was the hand lotion,” my wife said.

I should have stuck to the decorative soaps.

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