A Bird Pooping On You Is Good Luck, I Swear

During the school year, I am up and out of bed before my husband every day. During the summer, I am … not. That's not to imply that I sleep away half of the day or anything. I'm simply not out of bed by 6:15 every morning.

Over the summer months when I'm still snoozing, my husband makes his breakfast and takes it outside to eat on the porch and enjoy the warm temperatures. Once he's finished eating, he tells me goodbye, I wish him a good day and he leaves for work.

Yesterday was different. Yesterday he went outside with his breakfast (that's not the different part). He finished, came inside and started washing his hair in the master bathroom tub.

Me: What are you doing? You already took a shower this morning.
Husband: Nothing. Go back to sleep.
Me (sitting up in bed): Oh no. Something happened. Did you forget to rinse the shampoo out of your hair? That's happened to me before. Oh wait. Did you accidentally wash your hair with conditioner? That's happened to me, too.
Husband: No on both counts … what do you do in the shower that's so distracting for you? Seriously, Jen.
Me: … nothing and we're not talking about me here. We're talking about you. Tell me why you are washing your hair again.
Husband: A bird pooped on me.
Husband (clearly dumbfounded): What … huh … how? How is a bird taking a poop on me lucky?
Me: It is very lucky. Dude. Of all the things in the world, the bird picked you.
Husband: You're making that up.
Me: Nope. Tis true. It's a little known fact though and I'd appreciate you not letting, like, a ton of people know.
Husband: The bird picked me? Really Jen?
Me: I'm serious. It's good luck. Ooo! Buy a lottery ticket. We'll win millions!
Husband: No, I'm not buying a lottery ticket. And a bird pooping on me isn't good luck. Where did you get that idea?
Me: My Grandma. She said a bird pooping on you was good luck.
Husband: That doesn't sound like something your Grandma would say. How old were you when she gave you that information?
Me: I don't know … maybe eight? Nine? Definitely elementary school age.
Husband: How come she told you that?
Me: … no reason. Just idle conversation.
Husband: A bird pooped on you, didn't it?
Me: … maybe.
Husband: It did! A bird pooped on you!
Me: Okay, fine. A bird pooped on me. And look. I've had good luck ever since.
Husband: I don't think a bird pooping on you brings you good luck. I think your Grandma just told you that so you'd stop having what I'm sure was a massive freak out.
Me: Nope. The info is legit.
Husband: I'm going with the massive freak out angle. That makes more sense.
Me: No, it doesn't.
Husband: Where you freaking out when she told you the good luck bit?
Me: … maybe.
Husband: Did you stop upon hearing about the good luck?
Me: … maybe.
Husband: I rest my case.
Me: Are you really sure you want to use up all your good luck winning arguments with me at seven in the morning? That seems pretty foolish to me.
Husband: No more foolish than believing bird crap brings good luck.

I didn't tell my husband this, but I'm pretty sure not believing in the good luck makes it go away. Tsk tsk. That man will never get a front row parking space again or ever find five bucks lying on the sidewalk.


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