Birds don’t like me
What I was 5 years old, one of our neighbors had a pet bird. If memory serves me correct, I think it was a robin. I know that sounds weird, but I’m pretty sure that’s right. They would let it fly around the neighborhood and for some reason, it was attracted to me. I distinctly remember walking out the door of my house, excited with the anticipation of walking to the playground, when my joyful excursion was rudely interrupted by this bird that flapped around my head and continued to stalk me as I ran around the yard terrified. I remember thinking of dropping to the ground and covering my head, but I was so afraid it was going to land on me and peck me. It was awful. I think my Mom eventually chased the bird away and I eventually calmed down. That was the first of many ill encounters with a bird.
The second was at a campground and luckily enough, I was not the recipient of the abuse this time. I was camping with my aunt and uncle and my aunt was just about to take a bite of her egg sandwich. Her mouth was literally a centimeter away from touching the bread when a bird decided that it looked like a mighty fine place to take a dump. My aunt screamed and threw the sandwich and I collapsed in a fit of giggles. It was hysterical and I was just glad that the bird had chosen her sandwich and not my hot dog. This is the same aunt that passed away when I was a teenager, and to this day I continue to tell my mom that I truly believe she sits in heaven and sends the birds to get me. The robin incident was isolated, but things have only gotten worse since she has passed. . .
The first truly horrifying incident happened at the beach. I’m sure you can probably tell where I’m going with this right? If you can’t, I’ll give you a little hint: if you’re one of THOSE people who feeds the seagulls when there are innocent beach-goers hanging out nearby. . . I don’t like you very much at all. Here’s why. I was vacationing with my friend and her family. We were working on our tans (Wait, let me reminisce for a moment. Ahhh, the days before I dipped myself in a vat of SPF 50. . . the days before warnings from dermatologists. . . back when I would actually have a tan in the summer as opposed to the albino type thing I’ve got going on now. O.k. I’m done). Some boys who were our age were hanging out nearby. They started a friendly flirtation by throwing ice chips as us. One would land on my stomach and make me sit bolt upright. They thought it was hysterical. I would chuck the ice cube back at them (usually aiming to take out an eye or something), and the game would continue. This went on for a while and then it wasn’t so funny anymore. I was getting annoyed. I was just on the cusp of melting into a great beach nap when I was doused by what felt like ice cubes along with half the drink they came from. I sat straight up and started screaming at the guys. "That was SO rude," I yelled. They acted like they didn’t know what I was talking about and then slowly they saw what had happened and started laughing and pointing at me. I looked down. There was green bird poop on my shoulder, in my armpit, on my bikini, running down my side, on my stomach. . . it was everywhere. Whatever bird took aim at me at one seriously irritable bowel.
That’s when the screaming started. It took hold of me and it sounded as if it was coming from somewhere else. Everyone on the beach within a two block radius heard me screaming, and saw me sprinting to the ocean water while wilding shaking my arms. The repulsion was forcing a guttural scream and convulsions that seemed to be trying to shake off the poop. I threw myself in the ocean and let wave after wave wash over me. When I felt like I was cleaned off enough, I stomped back to the hotel room past the hysterical boys, and took a scalding hot shower. I may have scrubbed with bleach. I put on a new swimsuit and went back out, but this time it was straight under the umbrella for me.
Years later, in college, my husband (then boyfriend) and I went to the beach. We went to Ocean City MD and if you’ve ever been there you know what the bottom end of the boardwalk is like. It’s packed with people who are eating food, which means there are seapoopers a.k.a. seagulls everywhere. We were walking along the boardwalk and Mr. BBM was trying to hold my hand, but like a crazy person, I kept letting go and darting in one direction or another trying to keep the air space above me free from possible attacks. Mr. BBM was laughing at me. "There are all these people on the boardwalk," he said. "You look like a lunatic, jumping around like that."
I know that I did, but I couldn’t help it. I did not want to be used as a public bird potty again. Mr. BBM finally grabbed my hand and spoke softly to me trying to calm me down. He told me to walk with him and relax. Not 10 seconds after I started walking like a normal person, I took a step and felt the onslaught.
I abruptly stopped, turned and glared at Mr. BBM. "SEE! I TOLD YOU!" I screamed at him. Whitish-greenish-yellowish bird poop covered the arm of my sweater, and my entire left leg. It even hit my shoe. Mr. BBM burst into laughter as I started my convulsive sprint to the bathroom. If you’ve ever been to O.C. Md. you know what the bathrooms at the main part of the boardwalk are like. In a word: crowded. There was a line about 20 women long. I cut them all and ran to the sink. One woman had the nerve to make a comment loud enough for me to hear. I turned on my heel and gave her the look of death. "I DON’T NEED a restroom," I said, "I just need the SINK. You think that’s o.k. with you, HUH?" I demanded as I thrust my arm and leg out in her direction. She backed off and I got busy stomping on the pedal that makes the sink spray.
Just imagine trying to stomp on the pedal with your right foot, while trying to lift your other leg into the sink to wash it off, ditto for your foot. There were no paper towels in the bathrooms, only air dryers. So, when I had sufficiently soaked myself top to bottom and doused my sweater with water as well, I finally emerged from the bathroom. Mr. BBM was still laughing, but he knew better than to mess with me. "Let’s go miniature golfing," he suggested, "away from the boardwalk," he added so that I wouldn’t refuse. He gave me his sweatshirt to wear and we went golfing without incident.
It was later that evening and we didn’t feel like heading back to our room yet. "Let’s walk the boardwalk," he suggested. "ABSOLUTELY NOT!" I said. He grabbed my hand and we walked along the road several blocks to get away from the crowded area of the boardwalk. He assured me there would be less birds.
There were less birds, but that didn’t mean that I was going to be willing to just walk out in the open. I went back to my "safe place" and spent my time looking to the sky, darting from one storefront awning to the next, trying to avoid the birds like the plague. Mr. BBM was laughing at me, but he was starting to get a little annoyed. In his defense, I did probably look a little crazy. So, just like before, he grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the stores (Funny, he still does this today, but for different reasons. . . ) out towards the edge of the boardwalk by the beach. "See, this isn’t so bad," he said. We walked for a whole 20 seconds before, SPLAT!!! A seagull nailed me right on the chest. If I had leaned my head a fraction of an inch forward, it would have been all over my face.
I stomped and screamed. I threw an absolute fit as Mr. BBM tried to compose himself. He didn’t try that hard. He then had to help me remove the sweatshirt because the normal way of removal would be to cross your arms and grab the bottom band as you lift up and over your head. But, oh NO, that could not happen, because if I had pulled the sweatshirt off like so, I would have had bird poop up my nose. He helped me take the sweatshirt off and then I stomped my way back to the car demanding to go to the hotel room. We haven’t been back to Ocean City since.
It didn’t matter if I was close to a beach or not though. During my junior year in college, I lived in an apartment with four other people. My one roommate had a cockatiel named Sparky. He would occasionally let him out of his cage and when he was out, he would always try to locate MY shoulder. He didn’t want to see Mr. BBM who actually liked him and he had no interest in the fingers that would entice him to leave my shoulder. In fact, when someone would try to remove him from my shoulder, he would walk backwards down my back and make a pecking motion. I would usually have to go grab a beer after one of these experiences.
Apparently Sparky wanted to make more of an impression than just with these perch-in’s on my shoulder every once in a while. I came home after a long day of classes and work and took a bath. Upon exiting, I grabbed my towel and discovered that Sparky had left me a present. My roommate informed me that he liked to sit on top of the bathroom door and guess where my towel was hanging? I kept my bathroom door closed after that, and I’m pretty sure I threw away the towel.
A few years later, Mr. BBM and I bought our first house and had our first baby. I made a wreath and put it on the front door, where a family of mockingbirds decided to take up residence. Open the door. . . get squawked at. Try to take a stroll through your front yard. . . attack of the birds as they would swoop at my head and yell things in my ear about pecking out my babies eyes. (O.k., this may be a slight exaggeration. They actually whispered.) My husband finally got rid of the nest that they had built in our wreath. Besides the threats to do bodily harm, their frequent comings and goings were making a lot of noise at our door and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t making a lot of noise directed at Mr. BBM begging him to please find the birds a realtor and get them to move somewhere else.
Fast forward to last summer. We took Big I to the zoo and spent some time in the Children’s Petting Zoo area. Big I was feeding the ducks when we came under attack. There were about 4000 pigeons perched in the trees above and apparently they all decided to let loose at once. I went to open my purse to get out more money to buy the ducks some more food, and lo and behold, there was green poop on my pink back-pack purse. As I sat my purse down on top of the stroller to clean it off, I noticed another splash of nastiness on the stroller. The ducks. . . were left high and dry as I high-tailed it out of the area. Apparently, the desire to poop on me doesn’t just come from seagulls.
The bird poop is disgusting, sure. But, in general I am not a fan of birds. I hear their wings flapping and the sound startles me. I swear they purposely swoop at my head no matter where I am. My phobia of birds is so bad that I think it may even top my phobia of bugs, which is why this is so amazing to me:
See that, a bird. ON HER HAND. My offspring with a lorikeet ON. HER. HAND. A WILD lorikeet. In case you were wondering, Mr. BBM took this picture. I was waiting outside the fenced in area with Lil C who was "talking" to the pigeons, which made them flap their wings, which made me jump and startle, which made Lil C laugh and scream even more, which made them flap their wings more. . .
You get the idea.
And just for the record little daughters of mine, "NO, you may NOT have a pet BIRD!"
It’s a bird; it’s a plane; it’s . . .
A couple weeks ago, we were having dinner on our deck. It was a beautiful night and Mr. BBM was looking at the sky. "That’s strange," he said, "there’s a plane flying up there and you don’t see any exhaust." I looked up and saw this black object in the sky. Usually planes look silverish in the sky, and so I said, "Are you sure that’s a plane?". My husband looked where I was looking and told me I wasn’t looking at the right object in the sky. He then started watching what I pointed out. It was very high up in the sky, moving very quickly, and it seemed to be rotating. We had the video camera out because we had been recording the girls being silly. He directed the camera to the sky and shot this:
So, what do YOU think it is??? UFO?
If you can’t see it, go here:
To anyone who left a comment or tried to leave a comment yesterday, Typepad was seriously messed up. I had two comments (Lynn and J) that have completely vanished. I didn’t want you to think I didn’t publish them. Today, things seem to be working so comment away.
A little bit of this, a little bit of that, but mostly things that tick me off
Rockstar Supernova
Is anyone else watching Rockstar Supernova? I’ve got a message for the performers. If your name isn’t Toby. . . go home. You don’t have a chance. I called it last week and I’m going to say it again. He rocks on a completely different level from everyone else. Of course, I called Marty at the beginning of last season; and he was the runner up. I actually kind of hope that Toby makes it to the top two and then loses. Why? Because I think he’ll do better on his own than he would with the Tommy Lee crew. The thing that is killing me about Tommy Lee and company right now? They keep saying to the contestants, "From that song choice, you don’t know what we’re all about." Tommy, Gilby, Jason. . . no one knows what the heck you’re all about. You don’t have a song out yet; not one. You have no library of music to generate songs from. Sure, you have your old bands, but the times have changed and so has the music. Anyway, because the people I want to win NEVER win (American Idol for example, because since Kelly, not a one!), I am going to choose some additional potentials in case Toby shows up singing Celine Dion next week or something. My runner-up contestants, in no particular order are: Patrice, Josh and Storm. So, because I now put that in black and white. . . Dilana or "Spawn of Satan" as I like to call her, will probably win. Scary if you ask me; but Supernova is certainly no INXS.
Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest movie
Captain Jack Sparrow (Johnny Depp) and Will Turner (Orlando Bloom). . . sexy. Double sexy. Choke on your popcorn sexy. Use your popcorn bag as a hyperventilation aid sexy. Damn.
Teenage boys chewing snuff (dip, black tar-like substance, whatever you want to call it) while watching movie. . . so NOT sexy.
Message to snuff chewing boys: If you ever want to attend a movie with a female counter-part as opposed to your fellow snuff chewing zitty boy friends, I’d highly suggest spitting out the wad of cancer-causing nastiness. Gross. Seriously gross. Not only is it gross, but you look like a little old man who is missing his dentures. It’s just wrong.
Message to the three teenagers sitting beside me (one female, one male who were obviously a couple and then a third male): When you are sitting in the front row of a movie theater, it is rude to make out with your girlfriend/boyfriend. Not only does it make the third wheel of your little party uncomfortable, but it makes the 30-something couple sitting beside you kind of want to slap you around a bit. Back in my day (and NO, I don’t have dentures yet so I’m not THAT old), if you wanted to make out, you didn’t waste money on a movie and you certainly didn’t bring a friend along to watch. And, were you aware young teenager girl, that while you were lip-locked with your boyfriend, you were totally missing Orlando Bloom and Johnny Depp? My God WOMAN, what is WRONG with you?
The Picture People experience (yet again)
Lil C got her 9 month pictures taken today. Because I am a glutton for punishment, I took her back to The Picture People. I like their pictures; I really do. But I also have a message for the photographer: Do you see that dial-like thing on the end of the camera? The one around the lens? The thing that moves? Good. Now listen closely, when you move that thing. . . it does this amazing thing. It focuses. It’s supposed to focus on a FACE, not my baby’s fingernail on her pinky toe, not even on the stitching on her dress, and certainly not on the prop that you have placed behind my baby. You see, when you do that. . . my baby. . . her face is blurry. When her face is blurry, I don’t buy the pictures. I also scowl at you, complain, demand that you reprint the pictures because maybe you moved the negative or a wind blew it at just the wrong moment or something. Because you see, I have just had a work-out trying to get my very mobile baby to sit still for you so you can take the picture. When you take the picture and her face is blurry. . . you have failed miserably, and all that sweating that I have just done after spending 20 minutes of trying to convince her to sit still and smile at you even though you are very scary is for NOTHING. NOTHING. Add that up: 20 minutes plus one hour of waiting for blurry pictures plus 30 minutes of waiting for you to print and reprint and show me all the damn negatives already because there has to be at least ONE picture where her face is in focus. . .
It all adds up to one VERY HIGHLY ANNOYED mama. I have two words for you Picture People . . . AUTO FOCUS.
And, I think I’m about done now. I was going to add a little segment here about karate class this week; but right now, I’m just too annoyed with what happened at class to even process trying to write about it. Maybe later. . .
Lots to Learn
The family and I went to black belt testing. Our dojo had six students testing for 1st degree black belt (two of them for junior black belt), and two instructors testing (one for 5th degree and one for 4th degree). The testing dojo had two floors. We arrived a little late and lingered on the steps between the two floors trying to decide where to go. While trying to decide, Lil C heard one too many kiai‘s and started having an absolute fit. In her defense, 15 simultaneous kiai’s by some loud and motivated brown belts were a little intimidating for me, let alone a 9 month old baby. Mr. BBM promptly took her outside.
Big I and I decided we would watch our instructors for a while since the upstairs was packed full of hopeful parents wielding video cameras and jockeying for the best position. It was simply too packed upstairs to watch the brown belts. I can’t say I’m disappointed though. We watched six black belts test for the next level and the technique and the power that they used was nothing short of amazing. During a bo/tonfa kata where our two instructors did a fight routine, Big I audibly said "Wow" when our one instructor jumped into the air to avoid a bo sweep. At the end of their routine, there was applause. It really was that impressive.
The kata’s came fast and furious as the whole group would perform and then individuals would be pulled out to go it alone. All black belt candidates were judged by four higher ranks, one of which was a red belt. It was certainly a bit intimidating, but the judges didn’t seem to be overly critical which was encouraging. Another encouraging fact? Four of the six black belt testing for the next level looked to be older than I am.
Granted, I was watching the higher ranks test; but I couldn’t help but start feeling like I need to get to work and NOW. The level at which they did the kata’s was so impressive. The kiai’s were loud and forceful. Their punches and kicks had serious power behind them. They were all doing the proper breathing during the kata which is something that I do not grasp at all right now. Even trying to do the proper breathing makes me feel as if I’m going to hyperventilate. I’m going to make sure to ask about it this week at class because I feel like I should start practicing it now, rather than wait until right before the black belt test to try to learn how to do it properly. I’ll be interested to see who is wearing a black belt this week at class. I hope that they all did well enough to pass.
It was exciting to go and watch the testing, but the best part had to be when we were leaving. As we walked down the street to our car I asked Big I what her favorite part was at the testing. "The jumps," she said excitedly. "I loved it when they jumped over the bo. They jumped to the CEILING," she said. "Let’s try to do it," I said to her. So, the two of us jumped down the street as high as we could imagining a bo sweeping at our feet. I hope that one day Big I and I will be able to work on that fighting weapons kata together; but for now, just jumping down the street together was plenty of fun.
Let’s hear it for INTRINSIC MOTIVATION
I went to class tonight and worked one on one with a black belt on the sai kata for 3rd kyu. It is so cool! I also think it is fairly easy to learn. Of course, there are a lot of little intricacies that I’ll need to make sure I’m getting right; but the overall pattern is a familiar one. It reminds me a lot of the tunfa kata I did for last test. Having a familiarity with it already and it’s only July feels wonderful. It makes brown belt in September seem attainable.
I felt really good when I learned to use the bo months ago. Tunfa felt even better. Using sai just make you feel so wicked. There is a move at the end of the kata where you bring the sai together in front of you. The right overlaps the left sai, both with blades facing inward towards each other, and you scrape the sai blades together until you are holding both sai with the blades facing outward. Because the move is unique in that there are no other points during the kata where the sai come in contact with each other, I asked for an explanation. The black belt made sure the younger kids weren’t paying attention and then said that this move is supposed to symbolize scraping the sai clean of blood at the end of the battle. . . I think I’m in love.
As if the whole private lesson with the sai wasn’t exciting enough, Big I made some major progress tonight. Yes, when she snap kicks it still looks as if her leg weighs 4000 lbs. and instead of a smooth finish, she is usually picking herself up off the floor. No, her punches aren’t landing exactly the way they should; but the progress is that these kicks, punches, and elbows are coming with some serious force. She put on her game face tonight and instead of checking her hair in the mirror or worrying that she needed to reapply her "pretty" (chapstick for the common folks), she was scowling at me (her bag holder) and nailing that bag as if she has some anger management issues. I was one proud mama. Sure, she sort of resembled a monkey going nuts in a cage. The control is sort of lacking. O.k. we need to work on control. But we have said goodbye to the prissy girly punches of months gone by and are now seeing some drive.
In addition, while I was busy with the sai, the lower belts were standing up one at a time and showing their waza. (Big I’s waza goes something like this: step back and block up; kick; punch; block down with kiai). I didn’t even bother to look at the other side of the dojo because I was fully expecting to see my little girl, cheek to her shoulder, hair hiding her face, as she refused to stand up and give it a go. Instead, at the end of class, Big I came running up to me with a grin from ear to ear as she told me that she did her waza ALL. BY. HERSELF. I was sort of in shock and looked to our instructor for confirmation. She said it wasn’t perfect, but she could definitely recognize the waza from what Big I stood up and showed off. Big I wasn’t the only one who left the dojo grinning tonight.
The best part. . . she didn’t even ask for a reward. There was no mention of McDonald’s. Every few minutes on the drive home she would just blurt out, "Mommy, are you proud that I did my waza? I can’t believe I did my waza ALL BY MYSELF!" The intrinsic motivation was just oozing out of her and as a former teacher and as her Mommy, I can finally see that it is sinking in. Being intrinsically motivated to learn is a wonderful thing. She is starting to enjoy the successes that come with karate. THIS is the self-esteem boost that parents talk about when they say they want their kids to take karate. THIS is the reason why I wanted her to start taking karate two years ago. THIS has made my day, my week, and quite possibly my month.
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