“Hi. I love you a lot.”
Aww, I love you too, Iggy!
“And I love Brian a lot.”
Well, Brian loves you a lot too.
“Did you meet the new next-door neighbors yet?”
“I love them a lot.”
“And the guy that delivered the pizza on Friday night. I love him a lot.”
Yes, Iggy, I get it —
“And the UPS guy that stops here sometimes, I love him a lot, and there was this kid outside before, I saw him through the window, I love him a lot, and that woman that time at the dog park who filled the water bowl, I love her a lot, and there’s this other guy I heard of once…”
I feel special now.
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.