feathers and bird poop

So I go up this morning, enjoying the fact that I got to sleep until 8 AM as opposed to 6 AM, but I was also quite annoyed by the loud bird just outside my window. I enjoy their chirping as I awake usually. It makes me feel like they're chirping for me, but this particular bird was loud and obnoxious. I took my time getting ready, pausing for 10 minute increments to pet and play with Toby (who is my dog...don't want any misconceptions there, haha). Once I was all ready to go, I grabbed Toby, and we headed for the door. As I was getting the leash together in the kitchen, I heard a loud commotion coming from my very small laundry room. I jumped, notably concerned. Even little Toby was startled and instantaneoulsy went into guard dog mode and started barking ferociously. The door to my laundry room has a big window on it, so I slowly walked over to it and peeked in, and there it was...the BIRD! My initial thought...how in the heckity doo dah did you get in here!? The window to the laundry room was closed. Then it hit me...the dryer vent! That was one determined bird to go through all that trouble to get inside, and he was equally determined to escape.

Before I tried anything, I called my dad. There's something about moments like these...random, funny, and somewhat frightening...you just have to call someone to share the memory. In typical fatherly fashion, he laughed at me. Haha, but then dad gave me a game plan...a mission, if you will, to get that window open or to capture the bird with a towel. Both ideas freaked me out, but I thought to myself: "Les, you are a grown up, and you can do this!" But dad gives a pretty good pep talk, so I had a sudden burst of bravery, and with a pumped up "I GOT THIS," I said goodbye to dad, and I started to go around the apartment getting my supplies. I put on some old clothes and realized that I didn't feel secure enough...so I got my ski jacket out, put it on, zipped it up, and tighted the hoodie. I walked toward the laundry room door, determined to handle this myself. I looked back to see Toby sitting there watching me...probably thinking I looked like a fool, but I didn't care...I was gonna free this bird before he had a heartattack and died! Not only was I getting a bird out of my apartment (which just isn't natural), I was saving the poor thing's life. My goodness, I was a HERO! Haha.

The bird flew up to a top shelf and looked down at me as if to say, "I'll stay right here if you'll just come and open the window for me." I kept thinking of what dad said, "The bird's more afraid of you." So I opened the door slowly, peeking from under my hoodie, and closed the door behind me, thinking the entire time..."I hate this, I hate this, I hate this..." I proceeded to pull the blinds in order to get to the window. Once the blinds were pulled the whole way, the bird flew down at me and then flew into the window and fluttered all around me, which caused me to drop the pull string to the blinds, trapping the bird...and I screamed and basically jogged in place out of sheer terror...and finally stumbled to the door and got outta there quickly. Why do some of us jog in place in a panic sometimes? I mean, what will jogging in place do for me? It's like the fear is so great, it has to go somewhere, so my brain just triggers me to jump around and jog in place. Haha. I keep visualizing it. There I am in the laundry room, jumping around in my PJ pants and ski jacket, with the hoodie securely in place, but with all my jumping, it fell over my eyes, so I'm just...well, I know I looked like an idiot in there. Toby was barking, very concerned, and the bird was flipping out, and well, so was I. I finally got back into the kitchen, and decided to call my mom. I was equally terrified and amused. I couldn't stop laughing even though I was completely freaked out.

So apparently dad already informed mom, because when she answered, she just said with a laugh, "How's it going?" She was more amused than I was. Haha. And I have to say, if she had been at my apartment with me, we would have both just been staring at that poor bird because my mom is more afraid of those things than I am. There I was, sweating because of the gosh awful ski jacket, and at the same time, I had chill bumps because of the all the trauma...all caused by that stupid bird who thought, "oh, what's this little opening...where does this lead? Let me just see. OH IT'S A LAUNDRY ROOM!" Stupid bird! I couldn't get brave enough to try again, so I broke down, and I called my buddy, who came over and let the poor bird out.

Weird morning!

creative escape

Funny how you place these things in my heart…in my mind…and in my will. Funny how you make me see it even though they can’t. Funny, but you must know how it tortures me in the same breath, how it turns in my very soul. The question is “how?” You’ll never give the secret…you just lay the ground work and you plant the seed that produces vines around every part of who I am. How do I move? How can I? Flex, but nothing. Strain, but I’m held intact. It makes no sense to me. It surpasses all reasoning, but it’s a reality just the same. I can ignore it, but then it re-enters my being in my dreams. I can forget it, but then I wake up remembering it. I remember it all, and the memory of it is what shatters my defenses. Then I pull it to me and wrap myself in it like a blanket to soothe my anxious heart. I’m comfortable there. I’m me. I’m who I want to be. I feel it in my bones, in the blood that races through my veins, in my lungs that I somehow keep using to breathe. Sometimes it’s only by the sound that I survive the thoughts. Sometimes it’s only by the sight of your wonders that I’m able to peel back my eyelids from the blink that I want to maintain to just escape. You open them, and when you do, my pain floods my eyes in the form of salty tears that spill onto my cheeks, releasing all my inhibitions. I have nothing to hold onto…just myself. I look past me…to see what really matters…but no matter what I do, I still see myself standing across that dark alley street. “Who are you?” The words somehow creep from my lips, almost against my will. “Which way will you go?”

Should'a Gone to Scotland

The story has been told so many times, and with each rendition, the truth is probably stretched a little more, but hey, why not keep the banter alive? I’m just sayin’… Now that I have you on the edge of your seat and dying to know what this story is about, I’ll tell you.

Do you remember your senior class trip? I graduated 8 years ago, and today, as I was pondering life and the joys of living, I found myself reminiscing about high school and all the many adventures I pretty much missed out on with the exception of our cheesy senior class trip. Oh yes! The experience came right to the forefront of my thoughts, and I giggled a little, and then I giggled a lot. I pretty much lol’d. (I hate those acronyms!)

So anyway… Let me start by saying that our class of thirteen had the choice to go to Scotland (kilts, castles, maybe even unicorns…why not?) or on a cruise to the Bahamas (boat, sea, boat, sea…you get the picture). I and 2 of my friends opted quite strongly for the trip to Scotland . You’d think that’d be a no-brainer, but the rest of our class just “had” to go on this silly cruise, so we were out-voted. In the process of raising money for our trip, our sponsor found a great deal on a cruise trip for seniors, and that cut our costs significantly which is never a bad thing, or so we thought.

We boarded the cruise ship which was mediocre at best. The main attraction as we entered the big boat was this guy dressed in a dolphin suit. Picture this big room, and one guy dressed as a dolphin, wiggling around and trying to build enthusiasm all by himself. Excitement is not the first emotion that comes to mind. The first thing that came into my mind was, “How much is this guy getting paid to do this?” As we explored our mighty ship, we found that it was a very bland cruise line. We had a small reggae band that was nestled in the far corner of the top deck which was basically empty of any charm or appeal, a small yogurt room, and a lounge for all the singers to try out their karaoke skills. That just about covers it. Now for the kicker, it turns out that the senior discount was meant for senior citizens NOT high school seniors. At least, it sure seemed like it.

We made the most of the experience. Singing “Achy Breaky Heart” with Herman had its humorous moments (despite the fact that I wanted to rip my ears off because that song literally makes my IQ drop). Eating yogurt with Evelyn proved to be quite a learning experience as she demonstrated the fine art of denture cleaning. And standing on the top deck with my class in the corner near our tiny reggae band, we were able to maintain our composure even though the Disney cruise line right next to us was booming with good music and the silhouette of bodies dancing and carrying on rubbed the fun in our faces. Fred and Lois tried to put on a show for us by pulling out some of their old dance moves, and we smiled and clapped, but inside, I think the rest of the class finally agreed with me and my counterparts: “Should’a gone to Scotland .”

for the love of monkeys

I would marry music if it was legal and, well, possible. I love all kinds of music with the exception of country music, and I'm referring to the all too familiar honkey tonk cuntree stuff which I can't help but associate with that tobacco chewing, brown saliva spitting, animal killing, camo wearing sect of the South (no offense). And then there's that screamo music that does nothing for me except make me want to jump off of a cliff. Ok, so maybe that's a bit drastic, but it does make my head want to explode with every lyric blasted through my headphones. I mean, it sounds less like music and more like pointless yelling, and I get enough of that with the political debates. But, hey, to each his (or her) own, right?

I'll admit that sometimes I just "have one a'dem days" when I like to shake my booty like a "salt and peppa" shaker and pull out all the stops with my "apple bottom jeans and the boots with the fur" and just bounce to a little bit of hip hop. That brings me to a recent incident when my friend was listening to my iPod (you know who you are). [She's going to laugh when she reads this.] Anyway, I was like, "Yea, my sister may have downloaded some music on there, so not all of that is mine," to which my friend replied, "...so if you have any booty music, it's hers (cackle, cackle)." So let me just say, if there's any booty music on the ol' iPod, it's totally mine. Beyonce here, a little Ne-Yo there...hip hop never hurt no one. You have to excuse proper grammar when you're talking about hip hop, so for all the "hey, you mean, 'never hurt anyone...'" people out there, relax. And since we're on the subject, what's more relaxing than Sade lulling you into a musical coma on the beach at sunset or the poetic stylings of Sarah McLachlan, inspiring you to change the world that is (metaphorically speaking) on fire. Ouch. Tsss!...hot to the touch. That reminds me... Yea, you know, Paris Hilton in the recording studio...not so hot.

I typically "find what I'm looking for" in U2, and Tegan and Sara never fail to "fix me up," but "nothing compares" to Sinead O'Connor. And you know, you just can't go wrong with Missy Higgins or Brandi Carlile. Hey, I could compile a list, but why? You get the picture! So, George, there's your answer, and for the love of monkeys, dial the curiosity down a touch. And for all of you out there in the blogging world, I'll be in touch. Until next time...