Ham bone, Ham bone

My roofer was here this morning to install a new skylight.

Last year, when I lived in an apartment, I could never say a sentence like that, as I owned neither a roof nor a skylight. Now, not only do roofers come to my house, but I actually call them "my" roofer.

It's just like Eldin the painter on Murphy Brown. Which may actually be the best part of having a roofer. If I ever make a sitcom of my life, I'm set. None of my neighbors at my current residence are wacky enough to qualify as the wacky neighbor. But I've got a roofer (to be played by Tracy Morgan) who can come by periodically to do things, and maybe make a wisecrack or two at my expense. People who watch the show will wonder briefly why my roof is never done, but then they won't care because the roofer is just too much fun.

Anyway, my roofer, Bernie, was here this morning, and we got to chatting while he was touching up some paint outside my house that got marked up while they were putting in the roof a few weeks ago. (See why the roof is never done -- one project leads to another.) Bernie mentioned to me that when they were working on the roof, they were practically beating off seagulls. Also, the roof was full of chicken bones. (Isn't the mental picture just prime for a sitcome of my life?)

Bernie said that he thought that all the chicken bones were brought onto the roof by the birds. Which was a timely explanation, since my very unwacky friend and neighbor, Steph, had commented only yesterday about how many chicken bones her dog finds in the neighborhood.

Her dog is lucky, since most of my recent finds suggest something much more sordid going on my block. I hatched a theory last night -- when I couldn't find a parking spot close to my house -- that someone on the block was hosting late night parties involving chicken, tequila, extension cords, smirnoff minis, and possibly condoms. But my roofer shot the chicken part to bits. Apparently the chicken bones are from the birds, and who knows about all the other stuff.

But the weird things is -- where do the birds find all the chicken bones? And do they know that when they eat poultry what they are doing is akin to eating a second cousin once removed?