A handful of days ago, my boy and I met up with my cousin for a reunion lunch. She was in town for a work trip and seeing as it had been SIX YEARS since we had seen one another, it seemed like a fantastic way to spend a Saturday afternoon. She also brought along a couple of her friends for us to meet. And because we are always looking for new friendly faces in this new city we call home, things were looking up. Or rather we should have been looking up…
You see, after spending several relaxing hours laughing and talking as well as a delightfully surprising trip to the restroom – the stall was decorated with a Dolly Parton theme complete with a mosaic of her face, a doll figurine on a pedestal and Dolly herself belting out “Nine to Five” on the sound system; rock on! – we headed out of the restaurant to say our farewells. Little did we know that we were being stalked from the ledge of an upper window as we emerged into the fresh spring air. A pigeon had us in his sights and he was taking no prisoners. Clenching his butt muscles and with shockingly precise aim, he decided to go for gold and take three of us out in one shot.
As I felt a warm plop on the top of my head, I realized what had happened. I had pigeon crap in my hair. And on my sleeve. And on my shirt. And on my leg. AND IN MY HAIR. Did I already mention that? And let me tell you, in that moment of pure filth it took considerable resources from my inner Zen pool of tranquility to stay calm and not start running down the street, screaming like a banshee. But do you remember the new friends we were meeting? They were lovely people and completely normal. I could not let them see me waving my freak flag that soon into our relationship. No way.
Plus the others who had also been victimized, my cousin and my boy, were OF COURSE handling the situation like true grown ups. (Granted, we did not find the oozing sludge on Steve’s coat until a few minutes later. But still.) Everyone else was like Oh! Pigeon poop! How annoying! Isn’t that funny? While I was all I HAVE PIGEON SHIT IN MY HAIR, PEOPLE.
With a deep, shaking breath I greedily accepted a fistful of baby wipes and attempted to nonchalantly laugh away the manic episode I felt creeping up my back as I wiped away the waste. But let’s be honest, the only way I was going to feel clean again was to strip off my clothes and shave my hair or to take a shower. Neither of which was an option at the time. So. I took another big, grown up gulp of air, smiled, laughed with the group and bid them adieu.
And you will be proud to know that I waited until we rounded the corner before I gave in to my dramatic need to be loud about what had just happened. And true to form, my lovely boy patiently scrubbed my head with our newly purchased antibacterial wipes and sniffed deeply into my hair for any stray scent of bird excrement as many times as I needed him to until I felt clean enough to carry on with our day.
Needless to say, my previously poor relationship with pigeons has definitely taken a turn for the worst. So remember, always look up. Or we could all just invest in closetfuls of those plastic rain hats traditionally utilized by women over the age of 86. Maybe they are on to something after all.