MARY ANN FITZMORRIS / L’Observateur / February 11, 2000

My husband is on sort of a strike. Unofficial, but real. He has simply andquietly stopped doing chores we have an undiscussed agreement about. It was just understood that he would do the things I don’t bother with, like scrubbing all the black coating off the bottom of a pan I burned, or filling ice trays that I leave empty.

He was out of town for a week, and I had to fill all the ice trays I emptied. But now that he’s back he still only fills the ones he empties. And I burned a thick layer of charring on a pot and it sat in the sink waiting for him for two days! Finally I had to break down and clean it.

I’m really worried; I think he might have quit without giving notice! This changes the whole dynamics of the operation! Who is going to do my dirty work? What’s the use of being married if I have to clean up my own mess? This quiet understanding between spouses got the name Bird Poop Man not long ago, when some friends were gathered at a weekend farm. We were planning a barbecue at the end of a very long deck over a lake. But we noticed unmistakable evidence of some very active birds where this barbecue was to take place, resulting in a lengthy, mysterious delay. The hostess spoke up. “We’re waiting for Bird Poop Man,” she explained, giving me a knowing look. I understood immediately and, within seconds, her husband showed up dragging the longest hose I’d ever seen.

My son was sitting next to me. I put my arm around him and said, “Buddy, just think; someday you’ll grow up to be someone’s very own Bird Poop Man!” He stared ahead and uttered a pathetic, “Wow!” with a pained expression.

My Bird Poop Man provides a service that elevates him to lofty status, certainly among men, but even among Bird Poopers. He buys groceries with children in tow! He does this weekly! He enjoys it! I hope no one has dispatched men in white coats to pick him up after this revelation, because I have come to rely upon this lunatic generosity. Whenever I make an emergency run to the store with the kids I am filled with warm feelings for the man, which are, naturally, gone by the time I see him.

About six months ago my husband topped even that unusual service by offering the greatest bird poop sacrifice of our relationship to date. It was downright chivalrous. While vacationing in the 18th century town of Williamsburg, Va., we had decided to really get into this time travel thing. Dinner at the taverns is called gambols, offering food from the period and singing afterward, just as in the 18th century. We sat on the second floor where the air-conditioning was out on that steamy August evening. The ceilings were very low and the room darkly paneled, lit only by candlelight.

Already I was feeling strange, then the waiter presented me what I ordered – Welsh rarebit. This was described on the menu as cheese, awash in ale, served over bread and toasted in the oven. “Grilled Cheese!” my husband chirped colonially.

It came with Virginia Ham, which is cured outside forever, resulting in extremely intense flavor. Add the very aged cheese and awash it all in the aged ale, and it’s nearly toxic! No wonder Benjamin Franklin was the only overweight colonial I can remember.

Just the smell of this made me swoon, but I did take a bite. I’m not sure if I actually gagged, or my eyes crossed, but Bird Poop Man took his cue.

He immediately switched plates.

My husband ate the Welsh Rarebit, and kept his gagging to himself. One would think that such a bold, unselfish rescue should earn my Bird Poop Man some time off.

But he’s just so much better at scrubbing those pots! And I’ve got to get the man back on those ice trays.

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