That one Time I Tried to be Nice, but it Backfired

If you read my last post, you know that I don't like birds. Like at all. I hate them. However, I don't want y'all to think that I'm completely heartless, so I'm gonna tell you a little story about when I tried to put my fears aside and help a little feathered demonic creature and why I don't do that anymore. Honestly, this is probably one of those "you just had to be there" stories, but who knows, hopefully, you'll enjoy it.

I don't remember exactly how long ago this was, but I do know that I wasn't in high school yet, so it was probably somewhere around 13-14 years ago. Wow, doing the math for that made me feel really old. At first, I was thinking maybe it was about ten years ago. Then I realized that that would've made me sixteen-years-old. Wow, that's crazy. Anyway, I was probably somewhere around thirteen. So, you know, old enough to be embarrassed if someone besides my mom had witnessed this, but not quite as embarrassed as I would've been if I were sixteen.

Anyway, let me set the scene. It was a Sunday evening and my mom and I were just getting home from church. I was wearing a dress and a pair of black dress shoes. Thankfully they weren't heels, but if you know me, you never would've assumed that they were. I mean, have you ever seen me walk in heels? No, you haven't, because it's not a pretty sight and I didn't want to subject you to that. You're welcome. I promise that this is relevant, even though it doesn't seem like it.

So we were just pulling into the driveway and my mom noticed that there was a little baby bird at the edge of a mud puddle at the end of our driveway. Against my better judgment, I told her that she should get it out of the puddle and put it back in a tree or something. She was as shocked as you probably are, but like I said, I'm not completely heartless, and I knew that if the bird stayed where it was, it would almost certainly be eaten by my neighbor's dog. I didn't want something like that weighing on my conscience. Notice that I didn't volunteer to do this myself though, I wasn't that nice. And if I were to get up the courage to help it, I definitely wouldn't have picked it up like my mom did. I might've knocked it across the road with a stick or something. Actually, that probably would've hurt it worse than the dog eating it. Oh well, guess it's a good thing I let her take care of it. Now even though it was technically my idea to save the creature, I still wasn't too excited about it. I was already scooting as close to the passenger side door as I could possibly get when she picked it up. She started talking about how cute it was. I replied that it wasn't cute and she better not let it fly into the van. To which she claimed that it couldn't fly and that "it's not gonna get you." Pause.

Y'all remember that Jeff Foxworthy bit where he's talking about the guy who got his nipple bitten off by a beaver? If not, you should watch it. I had to in order to refresh my memory and am now back after watching an hour and a half's worth of Jeff Foxworthy standup. Anyway, for the unlucky ones who haven't head this, he met a fan who's brother-in-law had his nipple bitten off by a beaver. He and his buddy had accidentally hit it with their truck and had gone to get it out of the ditch because they wanted to take it to the taxidermist. Now here's why this is pertinent to my story. In this bit, Jeff says "'look at it, it ain't cut up, or bloody, or nothin'.' And apparently 'nothin'' is the word that brings a beaver back to consciousness. And at that point, the animal lurched out and bit his nipple off."

Well in my story, apparently "get you" is the phrase that gives a sickly-looking bird the ability to fly, because, at that point, the animal lurched out, squawked it's battle cry, and flew right into the van. But not just into the van. It flew directly toward me and would've landed on my chest had I actually still been in the car at that point. Y'all, I ain't ever ran that fast. My mom said that it was like everything except me was in slow motion. She said that when she looked up, the car door was closing behind me and I was already standing on the front porch, which I'd estimate is probably about 25 yards from where we were parked.

Disclaimer: I'm terrible at estimating, so by "about 25 yards" I mean it could be anywhere between 10 and 50, or more. I don't know. The only thing I know about yards is that there are a hundred of 'em in a football field and that this was probably less than half of a football field. Maybe I'll measure it so I can tell you for sure.

Disclaimer 2: No I won't, I live in Texas and it's hot out there.

Mama managed to get the little demon out of the van and disposed of it. It was only after this that I made my way back to the car and we pulled around the house and into the garage. When we walked into the living room, my grandpa was coming back from the front door. He and my grandma said they thought they heard a herd of kids running through the front yard, but by the time he got to the door, there was nobody there. Once my mom finally stopped laughing, we told them that it was actually just me running across the yard at a pace that probably would've beaten Usain Bolt in a sprint. While wearing dress shoes, remember.

So there it is, the first and last time I tried to help a bird. They've just had to fend for themselves since then.

That one Time I was Viciously Attacked by Wild Vultures in Branson

Ok, so maybe "viciously attacked" is a little strong considering that they never actually touched me. And I guess I should clarify that they were actually Macaws, not Vultures. And since they were part of a pet show, most people wouldn't classify them as wild. But let's be honest, if I'd titled this, "That one Time Two Professionally Trained Macaws Flew Over my Seat in Branson" you probably wouldn't be so eager to read this. Click-bait, ladies, and gentlemen.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I can't stand birds. It doesn't matter if it's a Hummingbird or a Hawk, they're all equally terrifying. And if they can talk, well, that's just plain witchcraft. I mean come on, if there could only be one species of animal that could talk, why in the world did it have to be birds? Maybe that's what I'll ask the Lord when I get to Heaven, "Why not dogs, or cats, or even gerbils? Why'd it have to be birds?" I've been afraid of birds for as long as I can remember. This is probably because when I was a kid, my neighbor had Martin houses and the angry mother birds would dive-bomb me as I rode my bike to the little store beside my house. Evil creatures, those mama Martins. So I usually try to avoid birds at all costs. I now know better than to let my mom convince me that I'd really enjoy aviaries, and I refuse to eat outdoors at restaurants. However, when my mom mentioned going to the Amazing Pets show while we were in Branson, the thought that there might be birds there never even crossed my mind. Probably because I don't consider birds pets. Now I know some of you probably disagree. Some of you may even have a pet bird. And that's ok, good for you. Just know that if I'm aware of this, I'll probably never go to your house. But seriously, why birds? You can't cuddle a bird. They don't run to the door to greet you when you get home from work. Well, they might, but running birds are creepy, they're like giant, feather-clad roaches.

The first half of the show was great. Real pets, you know, dogs and cats, jumped hurdles, rolled barrels, and other cute tricks. Then after intermission, the announcer said something that made my skin crawl. He said that the trainer was going to showcase his amazing birds. Oh. My. Gosh. As soon as the two trainers came out on stage, I started sliding down in my seat. If they did anything on stage, I couldn't tell you what it was, I had slid down far enough that I couldn't see over the head of the man in front of me. Then the trainers started to make their way off of the stage and down the aisles. I slid down a little farther. "They better not stop at our row," I mumbled to my mom, who was already laughing. I'm sure you can guess exactly what happened. Yep, the two trainers, birds in hand, stopped at either end of our aisle. "Seriously?" I groaned and slid down in my seat as far as I could go. I wasn't technically on the floor, but I was close. I slid down so far that my head was laying in my seat. From this position I watched, and felt, the birds fly over our row one-at-a-time. After that little demonstration, the trainers proceeded on down the aisles. I thought it was over. It wasn't. They then proceeded to have the birds fly in an X across the audience. By this point, my mom couldn't breathe or see through the tears that were now streaming down her face, and those around me were turning around to see what I was doing in the floor. "I don't do birds," I told them. After they finally took the birds backstage, I crawled back into my chair to watch the last little bit of the show which included Siberian Huskies and a cat performing a trick that had apparently been done in the movie, Big Fish. 

So yeah, no more pet shows for me. 

That One Time I Discovered That I have a Phobia of Waterslides

Remember when I actually did a good job of keeping up with this blog? Yeah, come to think of it, me either. But wow, it's been a while. I used to say I was going to do better and would post more often, but let's get real, I probably won't, so I'm not going to promise anything.

Earlier tonight my grandma asked me to write down this story because she wanted to share it with some friends of ours and I thought, "you know what? I haven't blogged in forever, I could totally kill two birds with one stone and use this story for a blog." Side note, there has to be a more effective method of killing birds. I don't think my aim or arm strength is good enough to even kill one bird with a stone, let alone two, but I digress.

Several years ago, my mom and I took a trip to Branson, Missouri. It was a really fun trip. This was the trip on which I discovered the deliciousness of Lambert's Cafe (Home of Throwed Rolls). It was also the trip on which I discovered that I have a pretty significant fear of waterslides.

We stayed at Welk Resort which was a really nice hotel, mostly because they gave us a bag of snacks and bottles of water, what can I say, I'm easy to please. It also had an indoor waterpark right across the parking lot which was free to anyone staying at the hotel. We knew about this before leaving on the trip, but I'm not normally one for swimming, so I didn't bother packing a swimsuit. However, a day or so after we got there, I decided that I wouldn't mind spending a couple hours at the waterpark, so we bought me a bathing suit at the local Walmart and headed across the parking lot to check it out. Like I said, I don't normally like to swim, probably because I can't, so I headed straight for the vacant hot tub. For a while, I was sitting there thinking that sitting in a hot tub by myself was pretty awkward. But then someone else entered the hot tub, which I discovered was even more awkward, so I got out. While I was in the hot tub and not thinking about how incredibly awkward it was, I had also thought about trying the water slide. I mentioned this to my mom who was sitting in a chair off to the side, waiting for me to get ready to go back to the hotel. "I wish you would," she said. I mentioned that I wasn't sure since I couldn't really swim. She then pointed out that there had been a kid that had been down the slide three or four times already. She said, "if a kid can do it, I'm pretty sure you'll be fine." Terrible advice, but it worked. After watching several kids pop out of the end of the slide, skip across the water a couple times, and then walk out of the pool, I made my way up the stairs to the top of the slide. While waiting for my turn to hurl towards impending death, I came up with a strategy to minimize the risk of drowning as much as possible. The plan I came up with was to drag my heels all the way down the slide to keep from building up too much speed. In my mind, this would mean that I would pretty much end up sitting at the edge of the slide at the bottom where I could simply slip into the water and make my way out of the pool. Of course, I didn't take into account the water jet at the slide's entrance. I sat down at the top of the slide and before I even had the chance to dig in my heels, the jet propelled me down the slide at a speed I had not previously experienced outside of a car. Remember what I said about the kids just skipping across the water a couple times before putting their feet down and walking out of the pool? Yeah, that's not how it went with me. I flew out of the slide, all four limbs flailing, hit the water which someone had apparently replaced with a slab of concrete, and bounced off of the bottom of the pool. I came up coughing and sputtering, not quite sure where I even was anymore, and the "lifeguard" lady hollering at me to get out of the pool. I found the ladder, climbed out, and informed my mom (who was laughing hysterically) that I was done. I grabbed my towel and bag of dry clothes and headed to the bathroom to change. But the fun wasn't over yet. I had noticed as soon as I got out of the pool that it felt like I had a tremendous wedgie. Upon pulling off my one-piece swimsuit, I discovered that the wedgie didn't go away. I reached around to my backside and pulled a piece of paper out of my butt. I dried off, got dressed, and went out to inform my mom of this newest development. I told her that the force of me hitting the concrete water was so strong that it had ripped the tag from the inside of my suit and forced it up into my rectum. Upon showing her the piece of paper, she laughed even harder, informing me that it wasn't the tag, but rather the piece of sanitary paper that they apparently put into the crotch region of bathing suits. I guess this was a little better than my tag theory, but not by much.

So yeah, I don't do waterslides anymore.