One of the extremely dubious benefits of an apartment-mate situation is that you get to hear the other person cooing sweetly on the telephone to the romantic interest in his or her life.
In this case, her life. The apartment-mate is a female, and there's a boyfriend somewhere out there. Telephonic cooing, if one is not personally involved in same, is an altogether silly and rather nauseating thing.
This blogger cannot remember the last time that he himself did any telephone cooing. I am a rather dry and insectoid individual at times, quite uninvolved with anything at all that might constitute cooing.
And consequently, cheerful coo-sounds emanating from the teevee room -- where the shared land line terminates in a device -- are an altogether lousy way to wake up.
Coos. And cooing.
Ick poo.
The first cup of coffee ALWAYS tastes better when there are NO coos.
Or giggles. Or chirruping and twittering.
It's like living with a flock of birds.
Well, only one bird.
Happy bird.
They're eating together today, lunch over at his place. Apparently beer-marinated something. Ribs, I think. But that marinade would probably be better on fowl.
The downtown should be nice and quiet later on, what with the bridge out and no office workers about. A perfect time to seek the colony of crows which I know live somewhere in the bureaucratic canyons. Possibly in the copse of redwood trees at Trans-America, or down at Ferry Park.
Crows do not coo. They are very civilized.
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