Thursday, March 31, 2011


When I was sixteen, my dad did some kind of yard maintenance project that resulted in some branches and a bird nest landing in the dumpster.  Somehow I noticed the nest, and that there were eggs!  Several had already rattled to the bottom of the bin, but one was within reach and I grabbed it.

Lacking a proper incubator, I put in in my bra.

That night I had to work a shift at Dairy Queen.  I was the most careful and deliberate Blizzard-maker you ever saw.  That night I slept lightly, on my back, with all my supportive undergarments in place.  Also with the incubating wildlife in place.

The following evening, I had a double date.  It was a warm spring evening, and I wore a tank top.  With a you-know-what tucked carefully into my you-know-where.  Unfortunately, as I swung myself into the backseat of the car I felt a distinct, ahhmm...... well, let's just say when a bird's egg cracks in your bra you can feel it.

I ran back into my house and changed, and was infinitely relieved that the contents of my egg/bra were pretty much kitchen-friendly egg-contents, and not some half-baked baby bird.

All that to say: this poor chickadee has no idea why she is in my shirt.  But you do.

1 comment:

  1. It's too bad the whole nest-in-your-bra thing didn't work out. That would have been...really interesting. =)