The Bird

I returned home after work one summer afternoon to find that the door leading from the carport into the kitchen had been left open. Not just unlocked. Wide open. Living in Utah, and especially living close to BYU, this was not much cause for concern (the crime rate there, as you can imagine, is relatively low), but was another frustrating reminder that the two boys I lived with were not exactly the most responsible people.

Nevertheless, I went about my regularly-scheduled business of sorting the mail on the kitchen counter and checking the messages on the answering machine. That's when I noticed that the vertical blinds next to me were rustling, and I could see a dark figure near the base of the sliding glass doors -- about six inches from my feet. At first, I wasn't sure what it was. But I wasn't about to wait around to find out, so I grabbed the cordless phone and hurried into my bedroom down the hall.

Why my gay dance partner was the first person I thought to call, I'm not entirely sure. I mean, he was smaller than I, and certainly no braver. But my boyfriend was still at work, so I called him in a panic.

Me: "Troy, there is a crow in my house. You have to come over right away to help me!"
Troy: "What do you want me to do about it?"
Me: "Kill it, of course!"
Troy: "I'm not killing a bird. Where is it now?"
Me: "I don't know! I'm locked in my bedroom."
Troy: "Go see where it is. Maybe you scared it and it flew out already."
Me: "Okay. Hang on..."

I emerge slowly from the safety of my bedroom, being careful not to make a sound. Peering around the corner, I can see that the large black bird is not in the place of my initial discovery. Maybe he's right, I think. Maybe it has left the house.

As I turn around, I notice to my horror a silouhette in the dark living room, perched on the arm of the sofa. It's looking at me. Directly at me. With glowing eyes, it begins to fly, claws outstretched, making the most terrible sound my ears have ever heard. I scream and drop the phone, run into my room and slam the door, when...

SMACK!

The bird has charged right into my door. It wanted to attack me. It was coming to peck my eyes out!

Now what am I going to do? I left the phone in the living room (I didn't have a cell phone at the time), and I'm home alone. What if it pecks through the door and eats me alive? My mind is racing, when I hear a group of boys in the kitchen calling my name.

Who has come to save me from this evil bird? It's my dance partner and his housemates. Apparently, my scream and the thud that followed caused some concern. So he gathered up the troops and came to save the day. I was free at last. But let me assure you, there is nothing funnier than six gay men trying to shoo a crow out with a broom.

Clearly, Alfred Hitchcock's got nothing on me.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Have an Ulcer

1. Dave and I are trying to save for a house, which in Southern California comes at the bargain price of $600,000. For a two-bedroom condo!
2. And my ring.
3. And our wedding.
4. And our eventual children's college funds. (Okay, so we're not actively saving for this one quite yet, but it stresses me out just to think about it! Or maybe it's the whole having kids thing that stresses me out. Either way, stress!)
5. I am overworked, underappreciated and seriously underpaid (I know, who isn't, right?!) at a job that most days, I hate.
6. So I'm looking for a new one.
7. Of late, the gradual falling out with my sister and with a friend have come to a head.
8. I am going back to school at the end of this month (read: less disposable income and less me-time).
9. Bathing suit season is upon us.
10. Most of the things I want to write about here (read: vent), I can't. But trust me, they're stressful.

So yeah, I could use a Xanax. Or a bottle of wine and a long massage. Or a vacation. Or maybe a cocktail mixing all of the above for optimum results.