Bye-Bye Birdie

I don’t know who or what I pissed off in the animal kingdom, but I’d like to make a public apology: I’m sorry. I like birds, really I do, but outside, where the sky is the limit, not my bedroom ceiling.

Last Thursday, I ran outside for a minute and when I returned to my bedroom to finish getting dressed for work, I heard a noise above my head that my brain translated to me as: Get the *&#@ out, now!

It’s only in the movies where people hear a bump in the night and try to find it. Not me, I go the other way. In the wild it might be called survival of the fittest, but in the ghetto, it’s call survival of the fastest. The fastest person out, lives.

In the wild it might be called survival of the fittest, but in the ghetto, it’s call survival of the fastest.

Diving on my belly, I hit the bed like it was an obstacle course and crawled under the sheet for protection. Curled up in a ball, I shook with terror, rocking back and forth while mumbling what the *&^% is that?”

I have to get out of here, on three!

As I ran to the door with the sheet over my head, sound waves bounced off objects sending back vital messages through human echolocation: Dresser. Chest of drawers. Edge of bed. Door frame.

At top speed, I made it out and shut the door behind me in one swoop. After I crossed the threshold to safety, I had to identify my attacker, so I cracked open the door and saw a bird sitting on the blade of the ceiling fan! A freaking bird! How did a bird get in my bedroom?

There’s no way I’m going back in that room, so I closed the door and paced the floor. I called my employer to let them know I would be late. Then I made what felt like a Damsel in Distress phone call to D.

Blah, blah, blah, there’s a bird in my bedroom!!!
A bird, how did a bird get in your bedroom?
I don’t know, side of the air conditioner I guess.
Silence.
So do you want me to come catch it?
Oh great! He reads between the lines, sarcasm and hysteria. Excellent!
“Uh, yes.”

While I waited, I did some research on birds and how to catch them. If I were superstitious, I’d be really messed up as to the meaning behind a bird in the house.

Half hour later the door bell rang, I opened the door like I kicked it in. I don’t remember touching the lock. I ushered D in, gave him a pair of gloves, a towel and asked if he was afraid. He said no, walked in the bedroom and took care of business.¹

I heard all kinds of noise coming from the bedroom for the first few minutes, then there was silence. I tip-toed to the bathroom and I heard more ruckus, things being knocked over and finally about 15 minutes later the bedroom door opened. I put the sheet over my head and hid in a corner. “Did you catch him?” I yelled. “Yes, do you want to see him?”

Awh, look how cute he looks, with big man hands wrapped around his little neck. When he was perched on my window frame, I could have sworn he looked more like this bird.

I whipped out my video camera again and filmed a little clip of the captured creature.

“You want to take his picture?”

Well I do blog, my material just doesn’t fall out of the sky! I know a potential blog post when I see one.

The little guy had a nervous stomach from being trapped and crapped in my room. I didn’t come out of this ordeal totally unscathed either. Every shadow on the wall looks like a bird, sudden noises make me jump. I enter the house like a ninja, scanning the floor for dead fish and checking every room for flying creatures before I can relax.

I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but if one more thing with an animal happens, I may need to move. I can see the ad now: Looking for a good home, have sheet, will travel.

Heros don’t always fight in wars, they catch birds too. When D left, it took every bit of strength I had not to sing Wind Beneath My Wings.

1. I ran out the back door. [↩]

As Not Yet Seen On TV

If at first you don’t succeed try and try again, right? My first invention didn’t see the light of day because the concept of saving lives was a little bit too complex for the automobile industry.

Fuh get ‘em,  I don’t need them. I have a new invention that I am marketing and it’s called The Multi-Plate.

The Multi-Plate is created when I reheat anything on a foam plate for over 60 seconds.  My microwave is capable of soldering pasta to, and burning holes through, foam plates, but if you get the timing just right, it rewards you with The Multi-Plate.

Last night I reheated some rice for dinner, but I left it in a few seconds too long and this is what I pulled out.  I said if I can lift the rice off the plate, I’m eating it.  Turns out this is just the plate you need for eating rice.  I got every grain off the plate, the rice curved nicely into the fold and laid on the fork.

Then my light bulb went off and I thought to myself: I could probably sell The Multi-Plate, do my own marketing and be in debt to no one but the sand man.  I think I can melt about 1,000 Hefty Foam Plates in about an hour, so for a limited time only you can purchase your Multi-Plate here.  Act Now! While supplies last.

Brain Damaged

I’m so [fill in the blank] at a loss for words, that I don’t know how to start this blog post. I purposely took a few days off from writing to deal with some other issues, but now when I look at my blog, I feel like a retina, slightly detached. I don’t have writer’s block, I just don’t remember how to blog. I need flash cards for bloggers.

Thinking has become an olympic sport of the mind and I’m standing on copper. I can hear myself telling my brain to move various body parts, I’m no longer two steps ahead of anything. Everything around me seems to be a concerted effort and I’m either moving in real time or slow motion.

I knew something was wrong when I got caught in the office kitchen staring at a stirrer trying to remember why I wanted it and how to use it, which could only mean one thing, I’m brain damaged. I’ve identified the damaged areas below:

I’m doing some the weirdest stuff ever. The other day I went to get $20.00 worth of gas and the attendant only charged me $10.00. Now, I see and hear everything in slow motion so I’m sitting there watching myself act dumb and I say: You only charged me $10.00 and I got $20.00 worth of gas. I was looking at me asking myself am I really that crazy? I paid the man what he asked. This is gas!!! Step on it! I’m not that honest, I have a carousel full of office supplies at home to prove it. Mostly pens, which I will return after the ink runs out. I probably could have gotten away with it, if I wasn’t brain damaged. Instead I paid full price.

I’m forgetful too. Most days out of the week, I wear my sneakers to work and I carry my shoes in a bag for protection. Well I forgot them and thought I would be sent home to change. Well I didn’t feel like going back home and thought rolling around in the office wheel chair would be a better option. No one would have the audacity to ask why I am wearing sneakers while sitting in a wheel chair. I would be sooo excused. My other option was just to run around the office really fast. Instead, I emailed the director and got clearance to walk around in my sneakers for the day. He even offered to get my coffee and I looked at my sneakers thinking this forgetting stuff might not be so bad after all.

Further proof of brain damage is that my sensory skills were temporarily disconnected. I drunk more than a half bottle of wine because I didn’t feel intoxicated. I just thought it was a cheap bottle, but I realized when I woke up the next morning that I was just brain damaged. I felt something later.

I haven’t quite figured out what’s going on up there yet, maybe my trip to Pittsburgh this weekend will help snap me out of my walking coma. It’s nice to get away, I always feel like I’m leaving all my problems behind. I may even pretend to read a book.

Picture of brain provided by: www.unc.edu

The First Pancake

Why does my passport and driver’s license picture always come out like the first pancake, messed tore beat *&^%$@ up!

There must be some sadistic handbook circulating that says make ‘em ugly. Let them stand there long enough before you take the picture and wait until they have to scratch or have an involuntary muscle spasm, whichever comes first. Take the picture!

I had my passport photo taken earlier this week and I look ghastly. My glasses are crooked, my hair is flattened on one side, only one side of my mouth smiled, I look like I had a stroke!

I can just imagine that there is some wall of fame for the ugliest passport or driver’s license photo at their company picnics. Top prize goes to the institution that submits the “I’m Not Too Sexy” photograph of the year. Now when people tell me I look so familiar, I just might start getting offended.

I wonder if it’s called a passport because they look at our photo and give us a pass into the country anyway. I didn’t feel or look like road kill when I went to have my picture taken. Sorry.

Photo by FirstPancake.com

What My Clothes Reveal About Me

Not too many people know this about me, okay no one does, but I have my own clothing code that’s synched with my moods. I can be so quiet that people are forever trying to “read me”, by looking at my face. That’s kind of sad because I have a natural poker face, you’ll get nothing there….Most times I’m not sad, I’m just on standby, like a computer, waiting to be aroused. Until then, I’m saving energy.

Anywho, I thought I would put together these referral sheets for those who want to read me like a book (I’ll .PDF them later, you can click the pictures for a bigger view). If you want to know how I’m doing, don’t read my face, look at my outfit. Let’s look below….

If I’m wearing a suit, pant or dress, I’m feeling pretty confident this day. About what I don’t know, but I probably believe I can fly, or at least walk on water. I’m in a great mood, approachable, I’m serious but playful, I’m on top of stuff, organized and willing to help with whatever. Mood: team player.

Approachable. I’m in a great mood, more relaxed, wearing loafers and not too worried about deadlines. I probably lost a few pounds if my shirt is tucked in and my belt is tight. I’m feeling very Ann Taylorish on a Target budget. I’m flexible and ready for anything. Throw on a blazer and I’m good to go, anywhere. Mood: Pleasant.

This last outfit is what I looked like yesterday, crap. This means I am not in a good mood, the socks are a big indication that something is wrong. The high water pants mean I’ve gained a few pounds. I hate to see ankles, I love long pants. I’m probably retaining water and can no longer wear my pumps because my feet are swollen. I have on shoes that look like something Herman Munster would wear to keep from pinching my toes. I’m not interested in talking to you, helping you with anything and no matter how cute you are or how much I love you, I will bite. My hair is usually a mess too, I feel rushed and unorganized, so I throw on anything and think you should just be glad I showed up. Approach with caution until I comb my hair and put on some decent clothes! Mood: Get the heck away from me and chances are I’m hiding something behind my back to throw at someone, see above pic.

I don’t know what I’m wearing tomorrow and I know, my drawing sucks.