Love and marriage and a zombie bird boy

This morning as I was backing out of the driveway to head to work, I saw something on the front lawn that I hadn’t noticed before. A lawn statue. Specifically, a three-foot high statue of a little boy holding a cup of water, with a small songbird perched on his arm.

On one hand, it was the most trite, sickly sweet thing I’ve ever seen. On the other hand, it had poorly defined features and the eyes of the undead, which lent it a surprising creepiness. So at least it had that whole other level of yuck going for it.

My husband Brian likes to do yard work on his days off, and he was off yesterday, which explains the sudden appearance of trite zombie bird boy — Brian actually likes little knick-knack garden things like that.

I, on the other hand, hate them with a passion that burns hotter than a thousand suns.

I get home from work before Brian does, so I made a mental note to put the thing in the garage when I got back. Then I promptly forgot about it, so upon my return home this evening, I got to be surprised all over again when I pulled into the driveway.

“What the — oh, yeah. Trite zombie bird boy.”

Immediately upon getting out of the car, I walked across the lawn, picked up the statue, and carried it back to the driveway. Since I don’t have a garage door opener because “we need a garage door opener” only pops into my head when I’m actually opening or closing the garage door, and not, say, when I’m anywhere near a Home Depot, and I had to fumble with my keys and my gym bag, I had to drop trite zombie bird boy onto the concrete so I could unlock the garage door.


Whoops. I broke trite zombie bird boy! I honestly didn’t mean to. I thought it was made of some kind of resin material, but it was just hollow clay. Yeah, I hate the thing, but Brian likes it — and I like Brian. I didn’t want to break the statue — I just wanted put it in the garage until Brian and I could talk about it and agree that it would never see the light of day again.

I have to admit, though, I wasn’t exactly heartbroken. I laid the pieces in the garage — no idea why, maybe to give Brian the opportunity to bury them and mourn? — and went in the house.

But suddenly it hit me — it’s such a little thing to put up with, and it makes Brian happy. If anything ever happened to him and he were no longer here, and I could have him back if I just put a stupid statue on the lawn, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

I felt horrible.

I started looking for some glue, because I was going to put that statue back together for him.

Then it occurred to me:

How do I know he’ll go first?

See, there’s no way of knowing. Maybe I’ll go first. If I do, then wouldn’t he feel bad about insisting on having a statue on the lawn when he knew I hated it? (I think he would — he’s nice that way.) I’m sure he’d happily ditch the thing if it would mean getting me back.

So since we have no way of knowing who’ll go first, and I really hate trite zombie bird boy, I said to hell with it. It’s in the trash can out at the curb now.

Hey, love is risk.



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