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!"
Mommy’s don’t get sick days
Getting caught up on my blog reading? No. Practicing my kata? No. Getting ready for testing? No. Why, you ask? I’m sick. Sick. Sick. Sick. I have some sort of summer flu, complete with a fever (which is finally backing the hell off as of this afternoon), awful body aches, a killer headache, and swollen glands that are killing my throat. I got back from vacation Saturday night, had two days to get back to normal, and then I was hit with this. Fun. The thing that’s really fun? Lil C is standing up EVERYWHERE, and she’s not exactly what you would call stable. I am a human shadow, a sick human shadow. I don’t have any family members who don’t work; and I don’t have a babysitter I can call to take care of the munchkins. I am seriously pining for the school-aged sick days, when my Mom would fix me soup and bring me drinks every hour on the hour, get me tissues, keep things quiet, etc. etc. etc. so I could rest. Ahhh, the school-aged sick days, full of morning talk shows, followed by Gilligan’s Island and then an afternoon of soaps, followed by Oprah. I miss those days. A lot.
So, I emailed my karate school and told them I wouldn’t be in class because I’m sick and my instructor emailed me back to say that I should try to make it in this week because it’s pre-testing. WHAT??????? PRE-TESTING!!!!! That means that testing is not four weeks away. That means that it is either this week or next. Where did I lose those weeks? How will I EVER be ready? Unless I find a print out of my weapons kata, I am in big fat trouble. Also, for this testing, we have to do break-falls (which means, throw yourself on the ground without getting hurt, if that’s possible). Break-falls with a flu-ridden body. Yeah. So. Not. Happening. I am hoping I can postpone my testing for a week or two, so I don’t have to wait until September. I don’t want to get behind. I spent enough time getting behind while at home with Lil C in those early post-birth months.
I’m going to make a little prediction here. . . as soon as I start feeling well enough to work on my kata, one or both (most likely both) of my girls will come down with my little summer flu. As far as that kata update I promised. . . we’re at a stand still people. A big sick unhappy stand still. This Mommy needs to call off work, but just can’t. And in case you weren’t already convinced of it. . . Yes, I am feeling sorry for myself.
Wanted: Vacation Manager
Position title: Vacation Manager
Job requirements:
- Daily slathering of two slippery children with SPF 50 sunscreen at two hour intervals throughout the day (extra if children are in water). Daily bonus paid if neither child develops any sunburn.
- Managing the contents of beach bag and diaper bag, as in constantly knowing what is in both bags, where all items are located within bags, and what needs to be replenished.
- Frequent trips to obtain forgotten camera, "nice fresh fresh juice", towels, sunglasses forgotten in the car from the night before, etc. etc. etc.
- Getting in very cold pool water to catch jumping child. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Oh, and repeat.
- Preparing baby food menu for each day. Includes obtaining food and finding a way to serve it at a tolerable temperature.
- Building sandcastles which includes chasing away crabs from inhabiting freshly built sandcastles.
- Bathing and dressing slippery, sunscreen covered children each night.
- Running child to the bathroom from the point most far away from bathroom while chanting, "Hold it. Hold it. Hold it."
- Butt wiping.
- Retrieval of all meals not eaten in a restaurant.
- Carrying all beach materials (umbrella, beach blanket, towels, cover-ups, beach bag, sand toys, cooler, book, beach chair, jogging stroller, tent, etc.) to and from the beach each day.
- Confronting neighboring hotel room occupants who happen to listen to the preview channel for 4 hours straight at the highest volume possible.
Qualifications:
- Endless patience.
- True love for children.
- No allergies to sunscreen ingredients.
- Strength of a pack mule to carry multiple heavy things at a time.
Anyone? Anyone? Not that I’m complaining because I’m having a great time; but it sure would be nice. . .
Trouble
At karate class this week, I’m going to ask what to do if someone is pulling your hair with both hands in two separate locations and two separate directions. I need an action plan for this scenario. I’m also going to ask how to deal with someone who is biting you with two extremely jagged and sharp little teeth. Ouch. And now I reveal to you the perpetrator. . .
They don’t look like much, those two little nubs; but I can not even begin to tell you how bad it hurts to have your shoulder used as a teether on a somewhat constant basis. Also, your leg, arm, finger, face. . . yeah, that one was really good.
Lil C has gone from this cuddly little baby to what Big I refers to as "The Baby Monster." She can have about 1000 toys out on the floor that are her own, but she will find a way to get to: cords, remote controls, phones, Big I’s toys, books that don’t belong to her, etc. etc. etc. Today, she crawled over my stomach and across the living room. She finally ended up here. . .
Despite her face in that picture, she was actually quite thrilled with herself. She then decided that she wanted to stand up underneath the exersaucer. . .
Followed by deciding to work her way out from underneath the equipment. . .
And then, then people, she went from her belly to a sitting position (which is old news here). I wasn’t that concerned, until I saw her reaching up for the exersaucer. Seconds later. . . you guessed it. . . she was standing holding onto the saucer. No, I don’t have a picture of this little feat because I was busy holding both of my arms out in an attempt to catch her when she finally let go. I am so in trouble people. I need to baby proof NOW! I kept thinking I’d have more time. I thought she wouldn’t be on her feet or attempting to be on her feet for a while now. Boy, was I wrong. I have now officially begun my full time 24/7 job of being Lil C’s constant shadow. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
It was the best of times; it was the worst of times
I think I’m a bad person. The guy who has been doing my hair for the past four years told me that he is moving far, far away. They are moving there because his wife’s family is there and they’ve always wanted to live there. My first thought was, "MY GOD! What am I going to DO?" My second thought was, "How can I sabotage their plans to move?" He is a damn good stylist. I LOVE the way he does my hair. I started imagining myself picketing on his front lawn as prospective buyers drive by. "This house has rats," my sign could say, or "Termite infestation: Don’t be fooled!"
I seriously asked him if he’d come back up to visit and cut my hair. He said I could come down and visit and he’d cut my hair there. It is a LONG drive away. I don’t think I can justify a 10 hour drive to get my hair cut to my husband. $100 for a cut and highlights is already pushing it. I seriously think I am going to have a good cry over this when he actually goes. He said that as long as appointments are scheduled, he’ll honor those appointments. I think I’m going to ask if I can schedule through 2010.
The reason why I’m so upset is because I highly prefer going to male stylists, and there aren’t that many of them around. My reasoning is this: why would a woman want another attractive woman in the world? It’s competition for them. Men like to see beautiful women, whether they are married or not. Male stylists literally want to make the world a more beautiful place. There is a serious shortage of male stylists in this area; and I am afriad to subject my head of hair to someone I don’t know. I honestly feel like someone just dumped me. I know it’s silly, but I REALLY like the way he cuts and highlights my hair. Let me reiterate. . . I really, really like the way he does my hair. And don’t even get me started on how well he does my eyebrows. . .
I know most of you probably think this is stupid, but ladies, you’ll understand why. When this man cuts my hair, no curling irons are necessary. The cut dries so nicely and lays so nicely that it cuts my hair primping time by about 90%. It’s incredible and I know of not another person who can accomplish such a feat. He must have sold his soul to have such skills.
The other reason it’s a bad day? (I swore to myself I would NOT discuss American Idol on this blog, but with what happened this week, how can I NOT?) Who are the crazy lunatics out there who didn’t give Chris Daughtry enough votes to make it through? I am seriously in shock. I had picked him as the winner from the very beginning; and I am floored that he is done. Of course, I watched American Idol on Tivo and got occupied with other things and forgot to vote. It’s probably all my fault. I feel terrible about it. What’s the point of even watching the rest of the season? I’m done.
Another reason it’s a bad day? (Oh, you thought I was going to get to the good thing, didn’t you? Not yet. I like to get my complaining out of the way first.) If you’ve ever been to a funeral, you know how it emotionally drains you for days. It feels exhausting just to think or even deal with life after such an emotional ordeal. I honestly had that feeling after Kindergarten orientation. It is only now starting to diminish from the beginning of the week. It has been slowed in it’s regression by the fact that Big I asks me every single night if she has to go to school tomorrow. I told her tonight that I will give her some warning. I won’t just wake her up one day and make her go. I told her she’ll probably love it once she’s there. Tonight she said to me, "I’ll go to school Mommy, but maybe just one or two days a week, o.k.? o.k.? o.k.?" I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I think I’ll cry considering the week I’ve been having.
Talking about enough to make you want to cry. My lovely sister sent not one, but two, "I’m not a chain letter" chain letters: one to me and one to Big I. It’s this flip-flop one. The very same flip-flop one that when asked if I’d like to participate by a good friend, I told her I’d rather not. I always get screwed by these not-a-chain-letter chain letters. I sent out a book and was supposed to get like 30 back. I didn’t see one. I won’t even bring up the other crazy requests I got in the mail. I’ll only say that Victoria’s Secret is probably behind at least one of them. People have flip-flop fever apparently, but I don’t even like wearing them that much. My husband told me I should close the loop, so to speak, and send out the not-a-chain-letter chain letter back to my sister and the other girl listed on the letter, six letters for each. I mean seriously, what do people need 36 pairs of flip-flops for anyway? Actually, the whole letter is bogus because even if everyone fulfills their flip-flop obligation, you can only receive a maximum of 6 pairs. And, how are Big I and I supposed to come up with 12 people to send these letters out to? 12 people who won’t hate us for it? Talk about a Mission Impossible.
So, onto the good things before the flood gates open up and wash me away. At karate, I feel I’m making great progress on my kata. I feel like it’s really coming together and I’m getting the rhythm of it down. I am feeling like I have my karate flow back again and that is a good thing. After my summer vacation, I’m going to up the number of times I go each week, which should make a huge difference. I wanted to do this before, but with Lil C it’s been too hard. I’m looking forward to learning by leaps and bounds. And onto the last good thing. . .
I’ve been awarded a Mix-Pix award.
This lovely lady reviewed my site and wrote up a little something about me and my blog; and I am just thrilled. You’ll notice the little Eeyore on my side bar and I am quite proud of it. So, in honor of this award and my horrible week, I’d like to invite any lurkers to come forward, show yourselves, leave a comment and say "hello," or something. I know you’re out there. I see my visitor stats. I see my little map on the side bar so I know where you’re coming from, but who the heck are you? Won’t you come out and say hello? (And be nice, I’m feeling fragile this week.)
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