Happy Pink Day.
Pink Day is not on the calendar. It is dependent entirely on the weather. The first sunny, warm day in spring, after the snow has melted and grass starts prying itself up from being smashed face down in the mud, is Pink Day.
Tree branches swell with horny buds. Cardinals and robins sing dirty songs to the opposite sex. Humans take off their shirts and shoes, offering up their pale pink skin to the pagan gods of Spring.
I donned a thick sweater and a corduroy shirt and managed to have lunch out on the patio. I felt like an antenna, sucking up the sun's energy as it refilled my near-dead batteries. I drew a deep breath of Pink Day air, forgetting that it does not yet smell of sprouting daffodils, but of thawing dog crap.
My dog is rewarded with a little biscuit when he poops outside. Pretty much all he eats are those biscuits, so that's what his poop consists of. His little Shih Tzu turds come out like little macadamia nuts, exactly the size of those treats. If I could get him to eat his own poop he could be self-rewarding.
The lawn service guy just spread a spring layer of organic fertilizer. It smells like corn flakes. He says it comes from chickens. I don’t know if he means chicken droppings, or chicken feed, or, well, chickens.
As I exhale that deep lungful of corn flakes and poopcicles, I hear the sweet, optimistic sound of a cardinal calling for his mate. He song is drowned out by a passing motorcycle. I know it must be fun to be on a Harley. In high school, I myself earned a citation for disturbing the peace thanks to my bike's after-market muffler. But I’m not on a motorcycle now so it isn't fun. I respond with a bird of my own, and loudly sing a song of spring entitled, Shut The Fuck Up You Self-Centered Jackass. I don’t remember who wrote it.
When I finish this essay I'm going to celebrate day with tastes of warmer weather: a margarita, maybe some corn chips. I'll sit on my front porch and watch the neighbors parade by, in all their pink glory.