BRENDA’S WINDOW

I’m Wintry, the Poet, and I live across the street from this amazing Victorian house inhabited by Brenda, who, let’s say, is a vision crafted by the gods themselves. But that’s not the point. The point is what she did. She called the police on me. The audacity! And all because of my binoculars. These aren’t your grandma’s opera glasses. We’re talking high-powered, military-grade optics here. These babies can spot a squirrel peeling a peanut from a mile away, or, in a more pertinent way to put it, they can zoom in on the fascinating marvel that is a hornet’s nest.

Yes, you heard me right—a hornet’s nest. And guess where this nest decided to set up shop? Right under the eaves of Brenda’s house, close to, and this is crucial information, her bathroom window. Now, Brenda, being the aforementioned vision, uses this bathroom regularly, I presume. Like on Fridays and Saturdays, usually between 1130 and midnight. Unfortunately for me, the nest fell smack-dab in the middle of my prime hornet-watching zone. It was just a geometrical coincidence. Bad luck, if you will. And honestly, when I was focused on these incredible insects, my mind was miles away from other things. I was thinking about larval development, colony defense mechanisms, not… You know. You wouldn’t believe the social dynamics within a hornet colony. It’s like a tiny, buzzing corporate office, only with more stinging.

Her bathroom window faces directly onto my lovely rose bushes. I mean, it practically feels like a stage. My day was very hectic and filled with many activities, hiking, fishing, and bear hunting. The worst part of the day was when I lost my prized binoculars.

Anyways, I was out there tending to my roses at 12:30 a.m. and concentrating on the hornets, noting the unusual foraging pattern of worker number seven – a real go-getter, that one, when I noticed her bathroom light flicker on. Naturally, my male brain went out and stopped braining. I mean, who wouldn’t want a sneak peek? Am I not a man? Is she not a woman? It’s not like I was causing any harm. Besides, Brenda has a fascinating towel collection. I’m talking about Egyptian cotton, you know, the good stuff. She has a bottle of Pantene Pro-V shampoo next to her Olay Shea Butter Body Wash that’s sitting above her Dove beauty bar soap. And, okay, fine, maybe I also have a minor fascination with how people organize their toiletries. Is that so wrong?

So there I was, strategically positioned behind the rose bushes, trying to get a view of the hornet’s nest. And this hornet’s nest, man, it was a goldmine of entomological wonder! I’d been documenting its growth, the hornets’ activities, their comings and goings, the whole shebang, for weeks, around 11 pm each night. I’ve even got a notepad filled with observations, detailed sketches of nest construction phases, and even some rough calculations on the estimated hornet population within. Real scientific stuff, if you ask me. But here’s where things get twisted, warped, and frankly, offensively misconstrued.

As I was multitasking, trimming my roses and observing the hornets build their papery fortress, things took a rather dramatic turn. Brenda, bless her heart, started doing this seductive dance with her robe. I swear, it looked like a modern ballet set to the tune of a gurgling drain. And then, the robe came off. Suddenly, she was…well, she was not wearing a robe anymore. But really, my focus was the nest!

Then, things escalated. This particular night, Brenda, whom I may or may not have slightly stalked on social media, started singing, off-key, a rendition of something I vaguely recognized as a Barry Manilow hit, but with a country twang. This was not what my brain had been expecting. Honestly, I had anticipated… I don’t know, normal bathroom stuff? Brushing teeth? Maybe a face make-up? A seductive dance? But, Barry Manilow? I bit my lip to stifle a laugh. The image seared itself into my mind. Suddenly, the light switched off.

Now, this is where the story takes a decidedly downhill plunge. She screamed. Like, full-on, operatic screaming—the kind that makes dogs howl and small children cry. Then, she pointed right at me.

I’m not going to lie; I panicked. My first instinct was to yell, “Bravo!” because her singing, while shocking, was pretty impressive. But my second instinct screamed, “Hide!” So, I dove headfirst into the rose bushes, which, as anyone with a brain knows, is a terrible idea if you don’t want to look like you fought an angry porcupine. My heart leaped into my throat. I froze, my sensible brain screamed, “Wintry, run inside! You’re a wasp hunter, not a peeping Tom!”

But I remained frozen, and looked away pretending to talk into my handheld voice recorder, “Subject seven, appears to be returning with building material, possibly pulped wood fiber,” I muttered into the recorder, “Note the intricate layering technique… fascinating.”

Long story short, within ten minutes, I found myself explaining my love of hornets to two very skeptical police officers. They didn’t seem to understand my entomological passion and rose trimming after midnight. They kept using words like “peeping” and “voyeurism.” Can we please not?

That brings me to my current predicament. Brenda now gives me the stink eye every time I’m near the sidewalk, and the cops have warned me about… well, I don’t even know. Legal stuff. But honestly? So I was outside her window, which happens to be right across from my rose bushes, viewing a hornet’s nest—so what? Is night gardening and hornet observing a crime now?

Seriously, though, I truly believed Brenda and I could be friends. Maybe I can even help her reorganize the bathroom. Perhaps another shelf with a hook to hold her hair dryer, instead of leaving it scattered on the bathroom sink? Also, the shampoo holder in the shower looks flimsy and requires more support. And maybe next time, she could verbally warn me before calling the police?

Tomorrow is going to be a nightmare. I not only have to wake up and face the backlash of this fiasco, but I have to buy a new pair of high-powered binoculars.