Friday, July 2, 2010

To A Fine Feathered Friend...

Many, many moons ago, I found myself in the unfortunate position of housesitting for a boxer named Louis and a bird named Bob. How did I find myself in this position? Well.....I was working for a company in Salt Lake City and our office was comprised of 47 Mormon men, all over the age of 50...and three non-Mormon people - me, Shari and Bill. The three of us instantly became fast friends, based on our love for the occasional swear word, a Christmas party that involved wine, and the fact that we didn't wear any special underwear (aside from those Shari and I purchased on long lunch hours at Victorias Secret) under our work clothes.

At the annual holiday party, which I attended wearing a tight cashmere sweater and a black mini skirt (with tights, for the love!) as if to emphasize the fact that I was not part of the "in" crowd, I met Bill's wife, Barbara. She was dynamic, straightforward, and just a little bit scary. I thought I could handle her. I was sadly mistaken. After the Christmas party, Bill approached me and suggested that I might house- and pet-sit for him and Barbara...since I was clearly single and lacking any life whatsoever. I stupidly agreed to the proposition.

In a speedy and almost blinding turn of events, I found myself sitting at the very well-polished kitchen table of Bill and Barbara...and of Bob, the most vile and evil bird in the world. When I arrived, Barbara offered me a glass of wine. I accepted. As she poured my glass, she casually lifted Bob from his spacious cage in the kitchen and deposited him on the table. I took my assigned seat and reached for my glass of wine in an effort to ease my nerves, only to hastily draw my hand back as Bob the Bird from Hell raced forward and tried to peck me. Barbara laughed. I'm going to say that again, just so you understand. Her small and probably diseased bird tried to harm me. And. She. Laughed. Could a burning bush have spoken more clearly to me at that point?

However, I remained at their home and never drank that glass of wine as I learned the many rules of how to care for Bob the Bird and Louis the Dog.
1. Never look Bob in the eye. It angers him.
2. Louis cannot navigate the many stairs in our beautiful and pretentious home. You must carry him up and down the stairs. Repeatedly.
3. Never mind that Louis weighs 180 pounds. And/or that he drools incessantly. Carry him, you sucker! And be grateful that we let you stay in our lovely home.
4. We left you some risotto in the fridge. It is just about to age out....so eat it quickly.
5. Bob needs to be let out of his cage to spread his wings every evening. If you could gaze at him (but not in the eye, you idiot) lovingly and sing an Irish ditty, that would be helpful.
6. If Bob wants to climb up on your shoulder, let him. You need to say POOP before you let him mount you (seriously, could this be any worse?). He poops on command. So command him to poop. Then clean it up (the table is highly polished for a reason), then let him climb up your hand with his itty bitty scratchy claws until he reaches your shoulder.
7. He may peck your ear mercilessly when he reaches your shoulder. He may draw blood. But at least he isn't pooping on you.
8. Again, isn't this better than your low-rent apartment? Did you eat the risotto yet?

Bill and Barbara left for destinations unknown. I lugged Louis to the sofa and switched on the cable television, after throwing that disgusting risotto in the garbage. Just as I was about to embark on a marathon viewing of "The Betty Broderick Show" with Meredith Baxter Birney, I heard a strange noise. A clicking. A repetitive clicking. Louis was unresponsive, aside from some ferocious farting. I turned towards the clicking sound and emitted a long low howl.....as I witnessed BOB THE BIRD clicking down the hallway (also highly polished) towards me.

I flew into an absolute panic and raced about the room trying to figure out how to get Bob back into the kitchen and his cage WITHOUT TOUCHING HIM. After trying in vain to convince Louis that Bob looked like a tasty little dog snack, I resorted to sliding a pillow under Bob's feet and sprinting back to the kitchen at top speed. I may have inadvertently looked Bob in the eye during this time period, which explains why he raced across the pillow and tried to take a chunk out of my arm. I lobbed him through the air and on to the top of his cage and stood panting in the kitchen, hoping against hope that Bill and Barbara hadn't installed security cameras.

Bob stood on top of his cage with his little feathered chest puffed up, awaiting my next move. I could hear the strains of the opening segment of "The Betty Broderick Show" starting up in the living room, and knew I had to act quickly. In the hopes I could scare him into his cage, I began a complex series of sprints across the kitchen towards Bob. When this proved ineffective, I added a wild waving of my arms to further inspire him, but Bob valiantly held his position. Finally, in sheer desperation, I donned some oven mitts and made one last dash across the kitchen with mittened hands waving, and added a screeching war cry just for safe measure. Bob lunged towards the hole in the top of his cage as if he was going to comply, but tried to execute a last-minute change of heart at the last second, turning his back to the hole. But by that time I had reached the cage, my war cry still echoing, and I gave him a firm slap on the back with my oven mitt, sending him tumbling down the little ladder and onto the floor of his cage. He was too dazed to race back up the ladder before I slammed the door shut, sealing the deal with two expensive French cookbooks, a rolling pin and a snow boot - just in case Bob had some strange surge of adrenaline and came seeking revenge.

Strangely enough, that was the last time Bill and Barbara asked me to house sit. I can only imagine that Bob clued them in to my behavior through a complex series of wing movements and angry pecking on a doll he fashioned in my likeness. After years of counseling, I was able to put the Bob Experience behind me....although I still tend to twitch a little whenever I hear the Betty Broderick theme.

To Posey


Dear Posey, my sweet little seven year old daughter,

A week or so ago we had a moment that is still in my mind. I had been STRONGLY ENCOURAGING you to get your skinny bootie into the shower so you could get to bed on time, and you had been resisting with all your might. We had one of those fierce stare downs that only mothers and daughters can appreciate, and just when I was starting to worry that you might win the doorbell rang and I dashed downstairs to pay for the pizza I had ordered for dinner (post stare down, obviously).

When you and Roan came downstairs to eat - Roan excitedly and you begrudgingly, Roan reported to me that "Posey said she hates you sometimes, Mom." Before I could even register a response, you burst into hysterical tears and threw your arms around my waist. Now, I've heard plenty of other mothers tell me that they were heartbroken or angry when their kids said they hated them, so I waited for a few seconds to see if I became furious or maudlin. And you know what? Nothing even close to that crossed my mind. I hugged you and attempted to peel you off of me, as you were not only gripping with all your force, but also seemed intent upon burying your nose in my belly button...and I did something that felt so simple and yet a little profound...I told you the truth. I said, "You know what? You probably do feel like you hate me sometimes - like when I make you clean your room, or take a shower, or tell you that no, you cannot lie naked on your bedroom floor and read magazines instead of putting away your laundry. And you want to know a secret? I said that about my mom when I was a kid, too. I never really meant it - I just said it when I was mad at her. So it's okay that you feel that way sometimes, as long as you know that I get on your case because I love you and want what is best for you." And you looked at me with those enormous blue eyes and even though you were still crying your face off, you gave me a teensy little smile that told me you understood.

Just as I was about to whip out my camera and set up the self-timer to capture the Supreme Parenting Moment on film, Roan piped up with, "Yeah, I get it. I haven't hated you since I was at least three, Mom. Now can we have some pizza?"

And life goes on.......