I always thought bird watchers came from old money and had British accents. I imagined them wearing knickers, fine wool caps, and viewing birds though solid gold opera glasses.  They would say, “lovely,” a lot.  Perhaps, another bird watcher profile could be a boy scout.  A lonely, nerdy boy scout with zero friends, a compass, and a ratty bag of trail mix.The LAST THING I would think is that I would marry a bird watcher, and the real picture didn’t fit any of my stereotypes.

My husband, Greg Neise, is a little crazy about birds. I’ve had to take a few deep breaths and finally deal. Why would this perfectly lovely, harmless hobby cause any marital distress? Why would I think, “okay this is super duper koo-koo bananas“?

It all starts with one stupid bird who gets more face time with my hubby than me. He’ll take two days to see a Mottled Duck. Jealous?  Not anymore…I’ve moved on (to shopping) and drinking! And I can tell the difference between the birds that really matter…like Wild Turkey and Gray Goose.

But anyhow, it’s madness. Neise will get up at like, THREE O’CLOCK IN THE FRICKEN’ morning! He makes tea, (annoying) gets on the phone (annoying) stomps around, (annoying) and kisses me goodbye (this I like! He’s the best kisser in the world, btw).  So, a part of me wonders why my hunk of burning love is running around in the middle of the night, looking for birds instead of snuggling with me.

Simply said, he loves it! Birding (the pro’s term for bird-watching) is a smart sport!  I fail to hear a bird song and recognize that’s a Robin. I wouldn’t make it past pre-school in ornithology. I am actually amazed that Greg has such a font of knowledge about birds and wildlife in general. It’s fun being around such a smarty pants.

Still, I worry. Although Mister Neise has something that I lack called coordination, I have considered the thought that he may disappear in the woods…or off a cliff.  He tells me stories about his adventures and these tales only add to my apprehension.  He’s been chased by farmers.He’s been stuck in the mud. He’s stayed at disgusting motels that had hair all over the bathroom and sheets…plus the door had been kicked in.  He’s puked like crazy at a truck stop…like the scene from Team America when what’s his face blows chunks everywhere.  He’s put up with teen-aged MONSTERS! These are not, “…you had me at hello” stories. People wonder why I never join Greg on his birding trips.Why on earth would I?

I think I’ll stick to baking pies.  And hunting down some Gray Goose for my now empty glass. Cheers!