Spring, new life, lambs and birds' nests . . . and those fucking starlings that managed to make an inaccessable nest in our roof just over our bedroom window. I wouldn't mind the rustling and the peeping. I wouldn't even mind the drips of bird shit down our outside wall that aren't accessible without a really tall ladder.

I DO mind the fleas they carry. Every fucking year. Spring starts, the starlings somehow find a way back under the roof, and I wake up with flea bites. The first year, we were afraid we had bedbugs my welts were so bad, even though mr. lurker never even got a single bite. Not only do I have whatever qualities of sweet yummy blood that make me the perfect blood sacrifice for other people's comfort, I have a pretty outsized histamine reaction to insect bites. My flea bites look like mosquito bites. Mosquito bites look like spider bites. Spider bites . . . well, last time I had one of those my leg swelled up like I had half a tennis ball under my skin.

It started again yesterday. I counted twelve bites this morning. And of course I had a pile of clean clothes waiting to be put away on a chair near the window, so I'm going to have to wash them all again in case there are fleas in them.

I itch all over. Fucking starlings!