i will be forced to tweet this post because, well, tweeting about it will seem really obvious when you read it
The boys and I were enjoying a pleasant dinner earlier this evening when, in between the din of gulped drinks, daily recaps, and forks clattering against plates as the boys shoveled food down their gullets, I kept hearing a squeaking sound.
"I'm not!" he declared.
I immediately shot a look to my youngest.
"It's not me!" he insisted.
SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEEEEAAAAKKK!!
"What in the? What is that noise?!" I asked. By now it was louder, more insistent, and coming directly from the other side of the door that leads one from our garage into our house.
"There's a bird in the garage!!!" the boys cheered in unison.
"Oh, HELL NO!" I cried.
If there's one thing I hate in life more than anything, it's social injustice. Additionally, I'm not a huge fan of birds (don't EVEN get me started on birds that are unjust socially), so realizing I had a bird sitting right outside my door, chirping not because it was in distress but because it was talking itself through an elaborate plan to turn the doorknob with it's downy wings and come inside in time to watch Wipeout put a gigantic damper on my evening.
You might say it even ruffled my feathers.
I implored the boys, who, unlike the bird, were eager to return to the wild after finishing dinner, not to exit the house through the garage. The last thing I needed was a giant crow or perhaps irritated bald eagle soaring through my home, wreaking havoc on the carefully crafted and woefully unintentional country-like decor that is my living room. Remember when I said the thing was squeaking? Well, by now, the bird was mad and feeling wronged by all its former high school classmates for the years of teasing and snickering they subjected him to. It was like the demon chick in Paranormal Activity (who, for accuracy's sake, was NOT an actual chick nor fowl of any kind).
"CHEEEEPP CHEEEPP LITTLE LADY! CHEEPPPITY CHEEP CHEEEP! TIME TO GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAAAAAANN. DID I MENTION CHEEP!"
I knew without even going outside to investigate that this bird was evil. Also, it was clearly rude, what calling me cheap and such. It started thumping its beak against the door. A few minutes later, it was slipping photographs of me in smashed picture frames under it. I knew I had to get it out and get to my garage door opener to seal off the hell hole before I woke up in the middle of the night to find it standing beside my bed, rocking back and forth and preparing to peck my eyeballs out.
"CHEEP CHEEP! I GOT A LITTLE QUESTION FOR YOU, LADY! YOU KNOWS HOW'S SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW BLUE BIRDS FLY? YEAH, WELLS THEN, BIRDS FLY OVER THE RAINBOW, WHY THEN, OH WHYS CAN'T I? CHEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPP!!!"
The trouble with this scenario, of course, is my husband, the man I'd naturally turn to when terror strikes our home, is out of town (p.s. - stay away, potential attackers!)(at least until Thursday!), and this forced me to panic and then try to come up with a way to solve the problem. If you know me at all, you know I've caved under lesser pressure involving both the carbon monoxide detector going off in the middle of the night and neighbor kids clogging the toilet (though not at the same time, but if that should ever happen, well, then, just feed me to the Bigfoot I'm so very terrified of because I'm as good as a goner anyway). So I did what any sad, unfortunate grown woman would do.
I called my mommy.
She doesn't like it when I call her that, though, so I just refer to her as Mom. Her first suggestion? Go see if the neighbor guy would retrieve it. Nice. And make my neighbors think I'm a wimp? Unacceptable (though very true)! Her second? Trap it under a laundry basket and scoot it out of the garage.
"Let me see if I got this. You want me to toss a plastic basket over a pterodactyl and slide it out of the garage?" I repeated.
"Something like that," she said.
And I'm the crazy one!
Not as crazy as the bird was becoming, though. With its voice growing louder and my will to live ebbing, I figured it was time to go out and investigate my foe (or potentially my fowl). Care to see what I was up against? Brace yourselves!
Two words. First word? Bad. Second word? Ass! Look at that mad face! Look at that scowl! Fall victim to those beady black eyes! This? This right here makes that praying mantis freak show from last fall look like a delicious cake walk in comparison!
What's that? That's a baby robin, you say? A tiny, defenseless baby robin? Rockin' little robin go tweet, tweet, tweet, you say?
YOU WEREN'T THERE, MAN!! YOU WEREN'T THERE!
Here's a sampling of how I attempted to remove this beast from my garage after two hours of listening to it squawk:
Telepathically signaling my neighbors to come see what I was doing by walking up and down my driveway like mad.
Taking to Facebook and begging for help.
Facebook had the (loving) nerve to laugh at me before suggesting I pick up the bird and place it back in nature because, get this, the bird was too young to know how to fly! Color me crazy, but if the bird was smart enough to stroll in, then this bird should have been smart enough to stroll back out! I was nauseated thinking about having to touch this animal.
Finally, my Mom called to see if the wild kingdom was back in its rightful place. I laughed nervously (to mask my tears) and told her I was still working up the nerve to touch the bird.
"Oh, for God sake. I'll be right over," she said, falling right into my trap, which, you know, if I was the trap setting type, this would have put things at Me - 2, Birds and/or Moms - 0.
A few minutes later, she pulled up to my house, emerged from her car wearing a pair of gardening gloves, and eased into the garage talking like the Bird Whisperer. "It's OK, little birdy. Mama's gonna take care of you. Come here, little sweetie." I may have had a flashback to my teenage years and wanted to ask if she thought if she'd spoken to me like that when I was young and impressionable, did she think maybe I'd not have gone through years of disordered eating (here's a hint - I didn't exactly eat like a bird), but I didn't want to crush her groove. I did get the nervous laughs, though, because I thought had it been an owl trapped in my garage, I'd have spent a large chunk of my night walking around singing "Who you gonna call?" because, well, if it's not obvious, you won't get the pun.
(OK. Owls. Who. Ohhhh...)
Two seconds later, she had, well, a bird in the hand, and I stayed a safe 20 paces ahead of her as we walked it to a tree in my backyard. That way she couldn't see me cry (kidding!) as she cooed and air kissed the bird, telling it how she could feel its tiny heart beating a mile a minute in its tiny little chest. After two hours, this potentially tragic crisis had been successfully averted, thanks to my Mom, who is now known in some circles as the best substitute husband a girl could ever want, and, lucky you, the end of my story neared!
As soon as she left, I did comfort myself with a fudge-dipped Oreo. What? It'd had been a truly stressful night and I may have been having flashbacks, mostly of that time I got caught in the chained entryway at our zoo's aviary display and not necessarily my teenage years, which could be a metaphor for the other, but I digress.
(btw, thanks again, TwoBusy!)
Speaking of food, remember when I told you the boys and I were enjoying dinner when we first heard this interloper? Want to know what was on the menu?
Yeah. You honestly think now that bird wasn't trying to send me a message?