Holly's Irrational Fears come to light.
The one year anniversary of me getting pooped on in Hawaii.
And where will I be?
This morning when I left for work - it was almost like all the neighborhood birds paused and looked at me.
That's her! I could hear them all agreeing in unison.
I have decided that the birdie chain of communication has unified in order to wreak havoc on me and my exposed noggin while skipping through the pearly gates of Epcott.
It's a Conspiracy Theory - to shit on me.
Here is the dramatic reinterpretation of my traumatic experience, It's a bit long - and many of you have read it before - but I thought I'd repost, anyway:
In the most beautiful place on earth, in an open-ceiling shopping mall paradise - I was relaxing on a wall, basking in the sunlight and enjoying the fountain behind me full of over-sized tropical fish, when SPLAT!!!
And if that wasn't bad enough - the bird was sick - it was green. I had green bird shit trailing down one whole side of my leg. No napkins. The closest bathroom was four stores down and two stories up in Macy's. So I had to walk all the way past the beautiful people behind the sparkling makeup counters full of expensive products while they stared at me - their faces struggling to contain looks of horror behind all the Botox. So I trooped past them - head held high - noting the fact that my choice of outfit - a pink Hillbilly Haven Old Navy tee and green army capris - was a bad idea (even though the pants hid some of the goo quite well). And with every squishy bird-shit-laden step that I made - I heard suppressed man-giggles snorting behind me by my ever-loving hubby who had somehow managed to avoid the Kamikaze Bird Shitter.
"When can I laugh? Oh, god, when can I laugh???" He would cry painfully every time a little bit of poo would dislodge itself from me and splatter on to the white tile floor. I said nothing - just threw my purse at him upon arriving at the bathroom and pushed my way through the sea of three-foot-tall Asian women - all speaking in their native tongue and trying to decide how many of them should be in the picture of Macy's bathroom as I stuck my foot in the sink and began scrubbing. The tallest of them, wearing four tank tops, satin bomber pants and four-inch spike heels - raised her camera. I shot her an angry look that contained all the fury of someone who - literally - just got shit on by nature. She ran down the hall and locked herself in an open stall - rattling - I'm sure - about how "Crazy big American woman - she try kill me! Kill me! Picture? SURE! Peace sign!!!"
After using every last piece of two-ply in the bathroom I was finally content that I no longer had bird feces on me. Walking out - my lovingly supportive husband - red-faced - handed me my purse without saying a word. We walked slowly back towards the other stores - he steered me towards Tiffany's.
"Do you want to get a little bracelet from here? Would that make it all better?"
" I don't want to talk about it." I said.
"Maybe a little silver one with your initials?"
"Don't wanna talk about it."
We walked past the security guards that lined the front of the store, both glancing at us and then blatantly staring at my leg that was soaking wet from the knee down. I gave them a weak smile while my husband steered me by the shoulders towards the glass case containing the sterling silver monogrammed jewelry. A small lady with short dark hair, magnificently groomed, and not at all soiled like me, popped up from behind the counter.
"This is our new 'Tiffany Collection," she said. "Would you like to try it on?" She held out a clunky chain bracelet that held a charm reading "Tiffany and Co." on it.
"Yes, she would." My husband took it from her and put it on my wrist.
I looked at the bracelet, then at my husband who was nodding approvingly, and then at the lady.
"What brings you two to Hawaii? Honeymoon? Vacation?"
Still staring at the bracelet I said: "A bird pooped on me."