This Place is Going to the Birds. Literally.

If you know me, you know I have an ugly history with birds.

I’ve never liked them. When I was on vacation in Italy as a teenager, my dislike turned to loathing. I had two birds poop in my hair in the same week. Try enjoying the Tuscan countryside when the soft breeze ruffles your hair and you reach back to tuck those wayward strands away and glob your hand through hot, gritty bird poo.

It was then that I declared we were at war with each other, and they’ve been targeting me ever since that fateful day. 

I could recount a number of grizzly tales of birds dive-bombing me and targeting my car, books, and person for a long time. Once, I sat under a tree in Forest Park for two full hours, reading a book, and paused to stretch my arms above my head. Instantly, I felt something hot dripping down my armpit. I heard the leaves above me stir, and a bird darted away, cackling with glee. Mission accomplished.

Plotting and planning…always plotting and planning.

Just when I thought I was safe in the bowels of the metal building I work in, it seems that my feathery friends found a way to invade my office. Below is the email I sent to my dear coworkers (including some who now work elsewhere) to inform them of our avian attack, and I think you’ll see another side of our seemingly quiet church office.

From: Cassie Moore

Subject: The Animal Adventures Live On…But WE May Not.

Hey everyone!

Just had to tell you a funny story about the Animal House (er, Hangar). As you know, we still have a mouse problem (mostly because we all secretly want our work space to smell like a hamster cage)….and there was that cat in the storage room a few years ago…not to mention the dogs we rescued this fall, when they ran away from home…but here’s another animal infestation to add to the list.

Today, as (name protected for his own safety from those wily birds) and I sat working, we kept hearing obnoxious squeaks coming from the room. I had assumed that they were sound clips, and didn’t realize that the sounds weren’t coming from a computer. Eventually, it got so loud that we both stopped and listened carefully.

Suddenly, we realized that it was birds–baby birds, to be precise–and that it sounded like they were in the room with us.

That’s a terrifying thought when you’ve seen the movie The Birds, incidentally.

We crept outside like the stealthy ninjas we are, and stole around the corner. It was there that we saw it: a bird’s nest the size of a small car, lodged underneath the corner of the Hangar roof and protruding into the building through a metal duct.

Actually, it may have been bigger than a car. At least, bigger than my car. Which is a glorified clown car, if we’re being honest.

Ok, I’m slightly exaggerating–but it’s a sizeable bird nest, tucked neatly under the building. We can hear every chirp and rustle like they’re sitting in the room with us. They even managed to tear off some of the black plastic material that’s our roof in here, so they must’ve been working on it for a while.

Funny, we’ve had cameras in this building for the purpose of watching people with sticky fingers. We never thought that the animals of the Oakville community would turn on us.

What did we do to offend the animal population in suburban St. Louis? Was it our mission to “reach and equip people to think and act like Jesus”? Oh, goodness–we singled out “people” and not “animals”. They must be upset about that.

Perhaps they found out about that time that one of our pastors wouldn’t allow a dog to walk down the aisle with his best friend at a wedding. I heard that poor pup is still whining about that.

Oh, no–what if they found out about that time that one of us (name protected for fear of PETA backlash) stomped on a little mouse with his heavy boot, squishing it to death in a gruesome manner, while the rest of the Hangar staff looked on like spectators at the Colosseum?

Uh oh, I bet they found out that we now offer gluten-free communion wafers, but not beef or chicken-flavored wafers for our furry friends.

Well, apparently the animals of Oakville have a right to hate us. And now they’ve started a full-out war against us. Great.

It’s a good thing you all got out of dodge while you did. This might be the last email you ever receive from m e eljhgl ligha  doas dfkg    jhg  g eanj   n lk………..

From: Anonymous Coworker #1

Subject: Are You Still Alive…? I’m Guessing Not. This Email May Go to Spam….

Cassie, I felt like I was right back there in the Hangar with you.  I still would like to see a photo of this nest and the birds though!

Do you remember when there was a nest right outside the door into the Hangar?  I had tweeted a photo of that one!  Yup, I had tweeted a photo of birds! – oh, the irony.

From: Anonymous Coworker #2

Subject: I Actually Have Better Things To Do Than Read These Sort of Emails…But The Draw of the Humor is Irresistable.

My favorite part by far is: 

We crept outside like the stealthy ninjas we are, and stole around the corner.

 Pure gold.

 It sure was nice knowing you guys before your untimely avian death!

From: Anonymous Coworker #3

Subject: I’m the Optimist of the Group, and You Know I Didn’t Stomp On That Mouse All Those Years Ago…

The animals should have been nicer to Cassie since she always did such an eloquent job of drawing attention to them.

Good times and happy memories!

Thanks for this. It makes me happy.

Oh, how I love my coworkers…they take a bit of the pain out of knowing that I’m now working with my back to some half-crazed, razor-beaked feathered hellions who have a bone to pick with me.

Or, rather, a seed to pick.

If I show up to church with bird poo in my hair, though, you’re all my witnesses as to exactly how it got there.

How to Single-Handedly Fix the Travel World…and Save the Melted Ferrets

It’s a strange phenomenon, really—when you really want to be sleeping, you simply can’t. And, when you’re trying to lie still and not move a muscle, suddenly everything itches and you’ll probably die a slow and painful death if you don’t scratch those itches in places you didn’t know existed.

Such is the case with me tonight. And, for the sake of my poor husband, getting up at the crack of dawn, I removed myself to the living room and settled myself there to scratch away and ponder life.

After successfully dragging Tucker off of our cozy, super-sized Lovesac (which has basically become the most overpriced dog bed in the world) and spending an hour battling him in his unsuccessful attempt to win back his sleeping quarters, I finally decided to do something useful.

Life, as usual, has been crazy. For the last week, I’ve been catching up on all of the

Our family, together in California, celebrating my brother's graduation

 

 work I missed while on vacation the previous week in sunny Southern California, where I caught up with family and saw my younger brother graduate from college. Upon my arrival back to the office, one of the receptionists quipped, “You know, you never really ‘take time off’, you just borrow time from someplace else.”

Oh, how true she is.

Nevertheless, I did have a great trip to California—that is, after I was done dealing with the airports. One could go on and on, bemoaning the world of air travel…but there’s no sense in giving myself premature ulcers.

I did have an excellent idea while standing behind a clueless middle-aged man, shuffling along in what appeared to be shoes that were popular before I was born.

After standing in the security line for over half an hour and listening to the same message drone over the loudspeaker roughly nine thousand times (you know the one–something to the effects of, “All liquids must be 3 ounces or less and in a clear container, all metal and cell phones must be removed from your body, and all dynamite must be stowed in your checked baggage”), we finally inched our way up to the security conveyor.

No stranger to travel (I’ve been flying solo since age 12), I whipped off my shoes, tossed my cell phone and watch into the basket, and had my purse onto the table before you could say, “Frequent flyer miles!” The security guard even raised one eyebrow, he was so impressed by my efficiency.

However, my lightning-fast maneuvers were to no avail. I was still second in line, behind Mr. I’ve-Only-Flown-Once-And-It-Was-About-One-Hundred-Twenty-Three-Years-Ago.

With pure, incredulous shock, I watched this nearly extinct Travel Dinosaur crack open his suitcase right there, on the actual conveyor. Deaf to the promptings of the security guards all around him, he slowly peeled back his piles of clothing to reveal—I kid you not—full bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shaving cream, and a razor.

A razor. At the airport. Did he forget what century he’s in? Did he think this was the Wild West?

On the spot, I decided that the airline world needs a makeover. For too long, passengers have been jumbled together and expected to put up with each other’s foibles—even the things beyond stupid, like those people who still think they can bring full-sized snow globes in their carry-on luggage.

We need a highly efficient organization system—one that sorts people into categories, based on their proficiency at air travel.

Those who fly on a weekly basis can earn a level 1 card, which entitles them to no-nonsense treatment at the airport—they can fly through check-in and security, and board the plane first since they don’t need three hours to find their seat and stow their carry-on bags in the overhead compartments. Another name for this particular level would be “I brought my brain with me to the airport today.”

Those who fly pretty regularly can earn a level 2 card, and cards would progressively continue down the line. At any time, someone who demonstrates consistent speed and efficiency in their airline travel experience can obtain a higher level card. And, conversely, anytime you do something stupid—like try to sneak a machete into your purse—your card drops down to a lower level, and you have to earn back your elite status.

It’s genius. Admit it.

Now that I’ve shared my revolutionary, world-impacting plan, there’s really not much to say about my vacation. It was blissful. I always enjoy people-watching in Southern California, the land where most people wear shoes more expensive than my monthly rent payment.

I did get attacked by a bird at an outdoor mall—I suppose that’s noteworthy. And when I say attacked, I mean malicious and repeated dive-bombing and subsequent entanglement in my hair.

I hate birds. I may be one of the only people in the world who can claim to have been pooped on 4 times—3 times on the head, and 1 time in my armpit.

I know, the inevitable, “How is that possible?!”

I’ll tell you how: I sat under a tree for two hours last summer, reading a book. Upon completing a chapter, I leaned up and stretched my arms above my head for a fleeting second. Instantly, I felt the warm spatter hit my underarm, and heard a blackbird cackling with glee and soaring away.

I hate birds, and clearly birds hate me, too.

Well, in retrospect, it could be worse. I could have nearly cooked my pet ferret to death in a hot car.

Yep. That’s precisely what Tyler and I saw this weekend, after popping out of a Walgreen’s.

A woman wearing a cowboy hat and dragging on a cigarette climbed into the gigantic pickup parked next to us, and sat smoking her cigarette and drinking her Diet Coke (a true picture of contradictions). We were looking up directions, so it took us a few minutes to catch on to what she was doing.

When we finally looked up, we noticed her absolutely bizarre behavior. After being in the store for quite a while, she had apparently cranked on the air conditioning (it was about 90 degrees out), and was holding her albino ferret up to the air vent.

It’s one thing to leave your pet ferret in a car.

It’s a whole different thing to leave your pet ferret in the car when it’s 90 degrees out.

And it’s complete lunacy to think you can re-freeze your poor pet ferret after leaving him in the car to cook to death, like a pint of ice cream you can just pop back in the freezer after it got just a little too melty.

I don’t know how that woman can sleep at night, with animal cruelty like that on her conscience.

(Please, draw no conclusions between my insomnia and Melted Ferret Lady…)

Well, after recounting these odd-but-true stories, I think it’s about time for me to try this sleep thing again. I’m thinking I might have better luck now—I removed the half-destroyed plastic Nyla bone that I’ve been laying on for half of the night now, and the Lovesac feels much more comfortable.

Maybe I’ll dream happy fantasies involving efficient security lines, birdless skies, and well-cared-for ferrets….

But, I must be honest here, Melted Ferret Lady wouldn’t get a Level 1 Air Travel Card from me.