I live in a nest I choose to recognize as the living room couch. Actually, I'd rather not call it a nest, it's more like a bunker. A storm cellar, if you will, protection against disaster. It's got everything I could possibly need: remotes, knitting needles, yarn, iPod, cell phone, sketch pad, some loose change, some crackers, chapstick, camera, a button, assorted miscellaneous items.
"Ashely, do you know where I can find a flashlight?
"Why yes Mother, I happen to have one right here," or,
"Ashely, I just really need a pink Sharpie."
"What a coincidence. I'm sitting on one." You see? It's all very convenient. But, when the occasion arises that my nest is not as accommodating as I would like it to be, a battle of will ensues.
"Mother, Dearest, could you do me a favor?"
"Just as long as I don't have to get up."
"But don't you love me?"
"Not that much."
And it begins. It's a game of reasoning to see who can be the first to create a convincing argument for the other to move. Shameless bribing [this is where the loose change comes in handy] and general, underhanded sneakiness will follow. We leave no survivors. But don't be fooled. I am not the only one. My mother has a nest also, maybe not as extensive a collection as mine and maybe she cleans and resets more than I but still, it's there.