There’s a woodpecker that has developed a small crush on our house. It drives The Cheerleader I Live With to absolute distraction, and I certainly don’t help the situation by squealing, ‘oh it’s so cute!!‘ whenever the silly bird bashes his face on the siding. What a weird little bird. (The woodpecker, not me.)

Who came up with that idea, anyway? “I know! Let’s build a bird with a concrete skull, and have him ram his pointy beak repeatedly into trees in order to get food for himself. Genius!” Idiots. Must not have been the same team that gave critters those glowy spook eyes to prevent them from getting smooshed on the highway at 3am.

Where am I going with this? I have no idea. But it’s kind of fun thinking about the stink in skunk, how goose bums don’t crush goose eggs, and the fact that ravens can mimic a group of loggers taking a coffee break. Everyone’s got something special, I guess.

I can’t unjam a printer, I can’t install track lighting, and I can’t whittle wood.

I can’t keep calm in a canoe, I can’t put my right shoe on before my left, and I can’t drink cold beverages out of hot beverage receptacles.

I can’t go barefoot on grass, I can’t drink Greek coffee, and I can’t bring myself to hate Justin Timberlake.

I can’t watch the trailer for the movie ‘Spirit: Stallion of The Cimmaron‘ without crying.

I can’t open most jars, or reach the top shelf, or parallel park on the first try. I can’t read in a moving vehicle, or dice onions, or remember the names of all the different types of screwdrivers.

There’s a lot of things that I know I can’t do.

But I know that I can write.

I like that.