Wednesday, Birds, No Train of Thought

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As I mentioned earlier, way back in 1991 I was in 5th grade. Our class had a pet parakeet. His name was Hercules and he was blue and white and everyone thought he was adorable. Everyone lined up to hold him, pet him, help change his cage. The girls oooed and awwed.

I did not buy into this mass-love-fan-club. I entered the classroom every morning and looked at him, he looked at me, and then I pretended like he didn’t exist the rest of the day. I simply did not trust the tiny bird. I did not trust any bird. His eyes were abnormally large, he didn’t blink often enough, and his beak was super sharp, like a tiny shank destined to perforate the gel-like consistency of my eyeball.

My blame for my intense phobia no doubt rested on the night my cousins and I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.

Side note, does anyone else think that Tyler Perry is totally copying Alfred? Except instead of Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo, now we have Tyler Perry’s Madea *fill in the blank for the 28th movie so far*. And while I appreciate the fact that Tyler isn’t scaring the bejeesus out of me with a son who loves his corpse mother and tiny blonde women wearing constraining suits while running/stumbling for their lives,  I think these two dudes should probably have just let their movie titles stand on their own. Rant over.

So back to Hercules.

There were mishaps of course. Any time you put a small animal capable of flight in the midst of a room full of captive fifth graders, tragedy is bound to strike. Like when he got dropped. Or tried to outrun his pursuers and got his tail feathers ripped out. In hind-site, Hercules had far more to fear than I did. But, alas, every time his freakishly pale eyes made contact with mine I could feel beads of sweat break out on my forehead. When it was my turn to help clean out his cage, all I could do was stare at his little droppings on the newspaper and a veritable operata of diseases would serenade inside my child-OCD-brain:

“Impetigo, Malaria, Diarrhea, Tuberculosis, Dutch Elm Disease…”

I’d like to say I overcame my fear. I did not. Later in life I would find myself splattered with bird poop while simply walking across the parking lot. If I stand under trees for any significant amount of time I insist on an umbrella. Don’t get me started on the time a swan chased me like some pale over-sized bat from hell. Want to keep me up at night? Make me spend time with one of those insanely intelligent African parrots who speak with the vocal chords of a possessed child and can turn their entire head backward like Linda Blair. *NEVER STOPS SHUDDERING*

What’s my point?

Fine, maybe I don’t have one. It’s Wednesday and I’m wearing my “rainbow dress” (Jane’s words not mine). It’s beautiful outside and I want to be cooking a peach cobbler with all the windows open at home. My train of shot is shot.

But.

I don’t like birds.

I mean, really, that’s it. I wish I did. They are beautiful and magical and they fly for crying out loud. As a unicorn and fairy lover of the highest degree, one would think I would adore birds. But I realized today it’s just never going to happen.

I went to lunch with a friend. We had the most delicious beef and broccoli. We laughed. We solved a lot of world problems. I was in the best mood. And then we walked across the parking lot, a streak of something white dropped right in front of my face and I looked upwards with a glare (but not before shielding my eyes with my hands, because if Alfred taught us anything it’s that birds always go for the eyes, whether it be with talons, beaks or poop).  I truly believe there is a gigantic aviary conspiracy to crap on my head at every available opportunity. And before I yelled at the sky “it’s not over you bastards” I checked myself. Even though my lunch date has known me long enough to take an outburst like that in stride, looking insane in public is something I strive to avoid.

But I really, really don’t like birds.

Happy Wednesday.

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7 Comments

  1. Jeanie says:

    I’m not crazy about birds, either. My family had a green parakeet named Blinkie when I was about 10 years old or so. Blinkie landed on my head one time, and when he flew off his tail feathers got tangled in my hair and stayed there. It grossed me out so much, I had to run in the bathroom and take a shower. AND I got in trouble from my unreasonable father. Like it was all my fault the bird landed on my head.

    Like

  2. Crystal says:

    My green cheeked conure is on my shoulder right now trying to mate with my ear.

    He saw your post and is offended by the “freakish eyes” comment.

    Now he’s back to rubbing his feathery butt on my ear, so I guess he’s really not that offended.

    Like

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