The Odd Couple

You know how sometimes, when you meet a couple for the first time, you think, “Wow, these are two really cool people. How great that they found each other and can enjoy being awesome together?”

And you know how sometimes you meet a couple for the first time and think, “Sweet Jesus, how can so much evil exist in one person, let alone two and for God's sake, what kind of demon spawn will enter this world when these two procreate?”

If you answered no to that second question, you've obviously never met Carl and Audra (names changed though God willing, I will never see nor speak to these people again in my life).

It all started on the first night of our honeymoon. JT and I were already in love with Aruba and excited to have our first dinner at the resort's hibachi restaurant. The place paired you up at a table with another couple so we also were looking forward to making some new friends. Well, JT, the far more social of us, was. I, being Queen Introvert, figured a pre-dinner cocktail would immensely improve my mood about dining with strangers.

Had I known what was about to befall me, I would have downed an entire fifth of the strongest island rum I could find. Anything to numb me against what was to come.

JT and I were the first of our table to arrive, so we ordered some wine and sipped and chatted while we waited. Within a few minutes, I saw a man and woman – both in their twenties, both tall and lanky, both supremely pale – making their way over to the table. I nudged JT. First honeymoon friends! Woo hoo!

Carl and Audra introduced themselves, Carl shaking JT's hands and Audra giving me a shy nod. An awkward silence started things off, but then it was JT to the rescue.

“So Carl, what do you do?”

Mistake Number One.

Carl and Audra exchanged a quick smile. “I'm an information technology support specialist for the department-wide computing system of a multifaceted education advancement institution.”

A brief silence while we took that in.

“That's got to make for a hell of a business card,” JT joked.

They were not amused.

“Forgive me,” I pushed on. “But what exactly does that mean?”

Audra beamed and butted in. “It means he handles all the calls when people in human resources at the university can't figure out how to use their computers properly.”

“Ooooh,” I said. You're a tech. Got it. I mean, that's a good job and all, but calm down.

“Yeah, it's really stressful and Dan always gives me a hard time, but like I tell Alan and Nick, you just have to take it one problem at a time,” Carl said as Audra nodded vigorously.

Can I just say that I HATE when someone refers to people I've never met like I should know who they are? Like I was going to say to this stranger, “Totally! Dan can be rough, but your advice should really help Alan and Nick. Those two! What a pair!” No. Stop it.

Carl followed this up with a 20-minute monologue about the trials and tribulations of an IT tech juggling the daily demands of a department of 12 in a medium-sized mid-Western no name school. It was just as exciting as it sounds.

I about died of relief when the waiter returned with hot towels for the table. I grabbed mine and remarked on what a nice treat the towels were, how restaurants rarely did that anymore, whatever. I was desperate. Towel talk would have to do.

Mistake Number Two.

“It's just weird because in Japan they usually give you cold towels,” Audra said as she and Carl executed a tandem eye roll.

“Oh, you've been to Japan?” I asked. Finally, something non-IT support related!

“Um,” Audra arched her eyebrow and smirked. “Only about ten times. I mean, because of my job?” 

Silence.

“Oh,” I said, because, really what else was there to say?

Another eye roll.

“I'm an automotive engineer,” she said slowly, like I was four and she was explaining quantum physics. “For Toyota.”

Yeah, you NEVER SAID THAT AT ANY POINT PRIOR TO THIS INSTANT! Is what I wanted to scream. Instead, I went with my old standby.

“Oh.”

Then Audra talked for another eternity about her job, which somehow managed to equal her husband's in the Interesting Things To Talk About category.

Mind you, at no point did they ask a single question about JT or me. That is until Audra grabbed my hand and brought it within an inch of her face to inspect my engagement ring.

As I've written about before, I love my diamond engagement ring for many reasons. It's been on my hand for almost two years and I still find myself staring at it at least once a day.

I told Audra all about its history, how special it was to me and how incredible it was that JT was able to do that for me.

“Well, mine's in the safe in the room. I just didn't feel right wearing it out and about here,” was her whispered response.

“Oh? What does it look like?” I asked.

She beamed again. “It's a one-carat emerald cut sapphire.”

“Oh, cool!” I said, actually meaning it. “Do sapphires have special meaning to you or do you just love the color?”

“No,” said, looking me dead in the eye. “I just can't stand when people wear diamonds. It's so thoughtless and tacky.”

I honestly didn't know if I should slap her or laugh.

JT shot me an incredulous look, and I was about to give him the peace sign indicating it was time to peace the eff out, but then the waiter returned with our food (and mercifully, more booze for JT and I), so I was willing to stay at least until we had something to eat.

We scarfed down our hibachi and when it was time to bid our dinner companions adieu, I about cried with joy. But then the waiter returned and asked if anyone would like anything else.

“Should we?” Audra asked, shooting her beloved what was meant to be a naughty grin but came off more Creepy Clown.

“Let's. We waited all day, after all,” he said, then turned to the waiter. “We'll have a glass of moscato.”

“Lovely,” the waiter said. “Two moscatos.”

“No, no,” Carl said sternly and shot JT and I a disapproving look. “Just one. We'll share.”

Audra giggled, clearly appalled at how very bad she and her new husband were being. I looked at JT with eyes the size of saucers. We were at an all-inclusive resort, for God's sake. And on vacation. OK, that was enough judging for one night. I downed the last of my (scandalous) glass of wine and nodded toward the exit.

We exchanged our goodbyes before their illicit moscato arrived and made our way across the resort to the pool area bar. I collapsed on it, head down in my arms, shoulders bouncing as I laugh/cried over the whole disastrous dinner.

“I mean, who in the world acts like that? On purpose!” I screamed into the bar.

“I know,” JT said, shaking his head and signaling for the bartender.

“They are very easily the most annoying people I’ve ever met. No! That anyone has ever met!”

“I know.”

“I mean, to act all high and mighty is one thing. To insult me directly to my face is one thing. But the sharing of the moscato?! That threw me right over the edge. Have you ever heard of anything more lame in your life?!”

“No, I haven’t,” JT laughed and leaned forward to grab our drinks just as I lifted my head.

Directly behind him, saddled up at the two bar stools directly to his right, were Carl and Audra.

“Ahem!” Carl cleared his throat as the bartender approached him. “We’ll have two virgin mudslides.”

JT and I remained perfectly still, as if that rendered us invisible. It seemed to take the bartender two years to whip up their virgin mudslides. But finally, chocolate milkshakes in hand, Carl and Audra left, probably to return to their room for some light Sudoku.

“Do you think they heard me?” I asked JT sheepishly.

“They have ears, so yeah, probably.”

I grimaced. Ugh. I did feel bad. I never want to make anyone else feel bad about themselves. I prefer to mock people behind their backs. Like a lady.

“Oh well,” I told JT. “At least we never have to see them again.”

Yet another mistake.

From that point on, we saw Carl and Audra EVERYWHERE. At breakfast each morning. At dinner each night. On the beach. On the bus. At the special honeymooners dinner our resort planned for us. ON THE FREAKIN PLANE RIDE HOME.

There was no escaping them. And it never got any less awkward. That’s karma for you. I was never allowed to forget how mean I had been.

There’s a lesson here. And I believe that lesson is: Fake food poisoning as soon as possible when seated at dinner with a-holes.

The Addiction

I knew about a little about them before I ever even met my husband.

I had tried them in high school, but even though all my friends liked them, I didn't really get the appeal.They made me look bad, like a weirdo who had no idea what she was doing (which I didn't).

As an adult, I started to like them better. I’d try them on the weekends from time to time, usually when I had nothing better to do.

As my relationship with JT grew, I began to truly understand the depth of his infatuation with them. He never lied to me about it. He was always upfront.He had loved them long before he loved me, and he had no plans to stop. I got it. Sort of.

It wasn’t really even until this past year when I really started to dislike them. For weeks on end, they were all he could talk about. There was no escaping them. I’d try to read or listen to music to distract myself from them, but I just couldn't.

Granted, it was the playoffs, but still. 

My husband, as many of you know, is a sports junkie. He works in the field, but far exceeding his professional obligation is an intense passion for anything in life involving competition, preferably when the fate of a football/baseball/basketball/puck/spandex-clad man is involved.

His obsession was tolerable at first. Fortunately, many of the teams he holds most dear aren’t what many analysts would call “good.” Therefore, some seasons (coughfootballcough!) were kept pretty short. His favorite teams are from another state, so most times, the games he wants to see don’t even air here. Which all worked out just fine for me. (JT is probably filing for divorce over this paragraph at this exact moment.)

However, a few weeks ago, a culmination of events led to what can only be described as a seemingly unending torture-fest for me.

It all started when the projector in the Man Cave died. That was JT’s preferred sports watching arrangement, which had always been A-OK with me. A dead projector - and the ridiculously high repair cost - meant a couple weeks of saving up money and relying solely on the living room TV for entertainment.

Unbeknownst to me, several factors were aligning that would render my home life unbearable for the duration of those weeks. (An aside: Fans of the following teams, do not hate me. I wish no ill will toward your beloved team. I support the local teams, though I will never pretend I watch every game. I’m happy when they’re doing well and when I do get to go to any live sports event, I always love it. It’s just that, like I said, I prefer to watch sports in small doses. Not every waking minute of my existence for weeks on end. We good? OK.)

The Capitals had not even made the playoffs, so that hell was avoided for yet another year. But the Pens were still in it, so JT shifted his attention to them. At the same time, the Wizards were also suddenly playoff-worthy. Between the two teams, I swear there was a game a night for two weeks. Add his weekly ritual of watching Monday Night RAW and the Orioles randomly popping up on local channels and I can honestly say I did not watch one thing I wanted to watch on TV for a solid two weeks.

I did, however, listen to A LOT of screaming. JT screaming. Announcers screaming. Players screaming. Fans screaming.

I also read, watched stuff on my computer (though my computer is very old and very sucky so quality was lacking at best), read some more, ate dinner alone in the dining room, moped around, sighed loudly, and went to bed by like 8 p.m. every night, annoyed and wondering what I’d missed on any number of the shows I actually looked forward to watching. You know, non-screamy ones.

This went on and on until one evening, as JT climbed into bed after his nightly shouting fest with the TV and I decided to say something. He’d always been honest with me, right? Time to return the favor.

“Baby,” I asked, rolling over to face him.

“Yeah, babe?” he asked, snuggling toward me.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you t-”

“I’m not done. I love you, but unless you want me to murder you in your sleep because I can’t get the sound of thousands of people screaming out of my head, you will FIX THE GODDAMN PROJECTOR. OK? OK. Kisses. Love you. ‘Night.”

I don’t really know if it was my pillow talk that night, or whether teams stopped playing sports, or what, but JT never asked me to watch a game in the living room again. The projector still isn’t fixed, so I assume the latter.

My intervention is working for now, but I know it's just a short summer before football season starts again. Of course, he'll relapse, but that's OK. At that point, I'll be the fixed projector's biggest fan.  

 

A Place for Everything

I originally wrote this in the summer of 2011, just a few months after JT moved in with me in the little farmhouse we called home for a few years. I recently sat down to write an essay about how insane I am about keeping my house in order, then realized, oh wait, I already did. Three years ago. And nothing’s changed. So, other than referring to my now-husband as my boyfriend, I’m pretty much in the same place. Yay for consistency! Oh well. The good news is JT now has his own man cave, so I never have to see his endless piles of clothes/papers/receipts/wires/cables/wrestlingchampionshipbelts (not even remotely kidding) unless I intentionally go down to the basement. Which I only do to do laundry. Which I do a lot. Because I freakin’ love to clean. Sigh. The cycle continues…...

I'm a neat freak. I have been since I was a child. I can remember coming home from school, walking into my bedroom and gasping in horror because the dolls I had lined up atop my wardrobe were not in their proper order. My mother had dusted, and now the world was nothing but chaos. I actually yelled at her her, if I remember correctly, and schooled her in the ways of organizing them to my liking. I still always knew when they had been disturbed.

That need for neatness has never left. The first thing I do every morning is take a lap around my house and make sure everything is exactly where it should be - or rather, where I want it to be. It always is, never fail, as before I go to bed each night, I take the same lap, straightening magazines so they're in a perfect stack, putting dishes away in their designated shelf spots, making sure photo frames are in line with the edge of the table so as to not appear askew.

I clean if not daily then damn close. My theory is this: if you do little things everyday - a vacuum run here, a polishing there - then you never have to have one of those days that people dread when they're stuck in the house all day, frantically scrubbing everything down in anticipation of some guest or holiday event. I, on the other hand, never dread those days, and do them sometimes just for fun.

Now that the bf lives here and this is his home too, I've really worked on getting over the whole "a place for everything and everything in its place" mentality - to a degree. All my stuff is still where it belongs. His stuff has taken up residency in odd places, like the dining room - a room I'd never really used much before but now serves as his storage space for work bags, paperwork, and the occasional pair of sunglasses. Do I think those things belong in a dining room? No. Do I think it's nuts that something like that would bother me? Yes. So I don't let it get to me. I just move his stuff out of my line of vision so I can't see it when relaxing in my living room. Problem solved!

He also tends to use the bowl in my entryway, whose sole purpose was to hold my keys so I never lose them, as a catchall for everything in his pockets. His keys ends up there, but so does his wallet, loose change, receipts, ticket stubs, Chapstick, more sunglasses and hats. Of course, that all does not fit in the tiny bowl, so it has taken over my entryway. Along with three or four pairs of his shoes. This is another thing I really have to push past to not let it bother me. So the first thing people see when they walk into our home is a pile of junk and three pairs of sneakers? Hell, there are worse things. This is what I tell myself every time I walk in the door and instantly begin to feel to onset of a panic attack.

The thing is I know I'm the batty one here. It is not normal to let these types of things bother you. I can never be mad at another person for not living up to my supreme need for organization. That would be like being a heroin addict and getting pissed that your straight-edge significant other doesn't shoot up with you every day.

I will continue to work on this, though from what I can tell, this particular trait of mine is getting worse with age. Perhaps one day years down the road, I'll be the one dusting my own daughter's room, putting everything back in perfect order just so she can tear it all apart the second I'm out the door. 

Oh well. I'll put it all back again during my nightly lap around the house.

A Snore Subject

Every night, two or three times a night, I wake JT up using a variety of techniques. I clear my voice. I sigh dramatically. I whack him with a pillow then roll over super fast so he assumes it wasn't me (logic! I use it.)

Every time he wakes up, he asks the same question. “What?”

The answer is ALWAYS the same. It’s not as if my response will vary along the likes of, “Oh, I just thought 3:36 a.m. was a good time to talk about what color you’d like to paint the bathroom,” or “Hey, I’ve been wondering, what do you think Crystal Gayle is up to these days?” It’s the same every time. I’m waking him up because he’s woken me up. And he needs to shut the eff up.

JT snores. I know he has no control over it. I’m very aware of that fact, as he reiterates it to me each and every time I wake him up.

But when it’s 7:25 a.m. and my alarm is set to go off any minute, the last thing I want to do is spend my final precious moments of allowed sleep time awake, angry and imagining what my new duvet will look like once I finally convert my office into a separate bedroom. The near alarm-time wakeups are the worst, but the middle-of-the-night episodes aren’t much better. I end up playing the, “If I fall asleep NOW I’ll get 3 hours and 17 minutes of sleep…...OK, two hours and 12 minutes… 27 minutes….DAMMIT” game all night, with JT’s log-sawing providing the soundtrack to my descent into madness.

Yes, I know one of us can go to another room to sleep, and trust me, we both have. The couch in our living room is perfectly comfortable and works fine on nights when I just can’t take it any more. However, JT travels a lot so when he’s home, I actually want to sleep in the same bed as him. I like falling asleep next to him, and I like when we wake up together (sans snoring, of course). I don’t think I’m quite ready for separate living quarters just six months into my marriage. Save that for at least year two, amiright? 

We’ve tried Breathe Right strips to no avail. They don’t do much other than leave his nose all red and blotchy in the morning. And his snoring is not quite at Scary Sleeping Face Mask Thingie level. Truth be told, his snores aren’t really that bad and probably wouldn’t be a big deal for any normal person to deal with. But, as I think I’ve clearly established here, my level of neurosis bypassed “normal” years ago.

In my defense, JT’s snoring is no mere repetition of loud breathing or even a faint nasal rumbling - something one could get used to and block out as ambient noise after a certain amount of time. No, JT’s snores are far more theatrical than that. They have the element of surprise. 

The sounds he emits each night are rarely something expected, nor do they stay consistent from one inhale to the next. One moment I will be sound asleep, the next, his ca-ca-ca-ca-CACACACCA Jackhammer Snore rips me awake, full of fear that my bedroom is being demolished. I’ll calm my racing heart with a few deep breaths and brace for the next one, when a stretch of silence will encourage me to hover over JT to make sure he’s breathing. This is when he occasionally pulls the old switcheroo from Jackhammer to what I like to call “Pa!” so named as it involves him sucking in a huge gush of air, holding it in until his cheeks pufferfish, then spitting it out in one explosive, “PAHHH!!” There’s the Single Snort. The Whistling Boogie. The Abrupt Exhale. All night long, I never know what to expect. I can never acclimate. I can never prepare. It’s like sleeping in The Hunger Games.

I will admit that I have, on RARE occasions, been faulted for the same offense. If I’ve had one too many glasses of wine or my sinus are being especially bull-shitty that day, I can snore EVERY ONCE IN AWHILE. But when I do, at least it’s just normal snoring, not this evil game of Guess Your Own Torture.

I’d been trying everything I could think of to cancel out the noise, until I realized blocking JT out has its own side effects. A few nights ago, I woke to the sound of him sawing away. It was a new snore featuring a series of short gasps and a longer exhale, as if he was practicing Lamaze. I kept my eye mask firmly in place and started to play my go-to snore situation game - pick an actress and think of every movie she’s ever made ever. Sometimes this distraction is enough for me to turn my focus away from the snoring and fall back to sleep. I was combing through my recollection of Sandra Bullock pics, but before I could get passed “Gravity,” I realized JT was not actually snoring. He was shaking.

“Babe!” I exclaimed, and reached out to touch his clammy skin. “I think you have a fever!”

“I c-c-c-can’t stop sh-sh-shaking,” he said, eyes still clenched tight.

I bundled up him up the best I could, then ran to the kitchen for some water. He took a few sips, lurched out of bed, leapt into the bathroom and proceeded to yak up everything he’d eaten in at least a week and a half. OK, probably not really, but he was in there for a while and the soundtrack was NOT PLEASANT. When he finally emerged, looking pale but at least not shaking, he climbed back into bed and within a few minutes was sleeping peacefully.

The next morning, I called my nurse mom, who identified his ailment as textbook food poisoning. I felt so guilty about not realizing right away my hubs was so sick and even more so about how initially annoyed I’d been.

Suggestions welcome. For now, seeing as how I’ve done nothing but bitch about JT for 1,000-plus words, I’ve decided to let him have his say on the whole snoring thing. (Watch how he magically makes it all my fault. It’s impressive). My comments (a.k.a. the truth) are in bold:

Yes, I snore. Everyone does occasionally. I try to do as much as possible to not disturb her with something that that I can't control. (Aha! Once again, we're going with the Not My Fault defense. Wise).

I usually go to bed after her. This means she gets some guaranteed sleep AND I just might have to settle into a bed occupied by the sound of a lawn mower. Yes, she snores, too. But when it comes to waking her up to tell her about it, bad idea. Have you ever seen a peaceful person morph into a rabid badger? Do you want to? Then wake up a sleeping Rachel. (You want to see that right now? DO YOU?)

I, however, am easy to wake up, and I go back to sleep peacefully. I’m not a fan of facing anyone who is in a bed with me (LOL! “ANYONE WHO IS IN BED WITH ME.” Hey JT – give me your girlfriends’ numbers so we can make fun of you behind your back, mmk?) so I always end up facing the edge of the bed with my back to her, rendering it impossible for me to be snoring right in her face, UNLESS she wanted to cuddle (So…never). I prefer to stick to my side of the bed and will talk to you in the morning.

All I know is this: I sleep well until she wakes me up with these tales of snoring. I guess it’s all practice if we ever have kids and our child keeps waking us up because of the monster under the bed. I just have to say, “What? It’s not real. Go to back to sleep.” (Best future dad ever.)

Question: If I snore in the forest and only Rachel heard it, did I really snore?

(Answer: YES. And why are you sleeping in the forest? Oh right, because I’ve kicked you out because of ALL THE DAMN SNORING.)

JK.

Love you!

Over the Moon

I had the following conversation with JT earlier this week and thought you guys might appreciate it. Owners of a restaurant near our house are mad at the borough's elected officials for raising taxes (or something). It's a barbecue joint with a big plastic pig as its logo. Ever since taxes went up, the pig has been turned so that its backside faces the road.

JT: “That pig mooning the borough is hilarious.”

Me: “Yes, but is it really mooning, or just standing backward?”

JT: “What do you mean? Both.”

Me: “Are pigs really capable of mooning? I mean, aren't they always pantless?”

JT: “I think it's mooning if their butt is facing someone.”

Me: “Well, that's absurd. I mean, pig butts are always facing something – a farmer, a fellow pig, a trough. Does that mean that whatever's directly behind the pig is being mooned? I don't think so.”

JT: “I think the difference between mooning and just being naked is intention. Like that pig is clearly sending a message. On purpose.”

Me: “Hm. So if I walk out of the bathroom naked and you see my butt, that's not mooning. But if I run up to you, drop my pants and wave my butt around in your direction, that is.”

JT: “What message would you be sending with that?”

Me: “I think the message of all mooning is pretty simple. I think it's just, 'Haha, you saw my butt.'”

JT: “You are obviously not a pig.”

Me: "Thanks, babe!”

A Bird in the Hand is Worth Thousands in Therapy

I've always had a thing about birds. I don't know if it's a full blown phobia, but it's definitely a “keep those things the fuck away from me” general attitude toward anything that flies. It started when I was about 10, and a sparrow flew full speed into our living room window, splattered on impact and slid down to the driveway in a slimy, spindly pile. I went outside to inspect it, saw the bloody feathers and limp wings, and became scarred for life. Since then, birds=gross.

Shortly after we moved into the new house last spring, JT and I noticed a gathering of twigs and gunk on one of the support beams under our deck. On tiptoes, I peered at the mass and saw it was a robin's nest. Every year, my parents spend endless hours removing such nests from their own deck, as their backyard robin is prone to placing her home directly above their porch table, leaving it dotted with white poo. This nest wasn't close to anywhere we'd be sitting or eating, so I let it be, despite my disdain for its inhabitant. I don't like birds, but that doesn't mean I believe they should be homeless.

For the next few weeks, every time I went outside to water the garden, I'd check on the nest, watching it grow right along with its occupant, Mama Bird. Pretty soon, she was spending less time out gathering in the yard and more squatting on the nest. One day, she flew off and I jumped at the chance to peer down between the two deck boards above it. There, huddled in a tiny furry mass were four babies, their teeny heads swaying back and forth while they waited for Mama to bring dinner. 

This was actually pretty cute and frankly the main reason I'd let their mother rent a space on our property to begin with. I was curious. I wanted to watch the progression as they grew before finally departing their home in a moment I imagined would be much like that scene from “Free Willy." Maybe watching all this would help me get over this whole bird hating thing.

The babies continued to grow, and Mama got less and less patient with my daily watering routine. I'd come out the basement door, say hello to the babies, then make my way to the other side of the yard to fill up my watering can. This went on for a week straight until one fateful evening.

I headed outside, as usual, to steal a quick peek at the babies, whose heads were now poking up over the side of nest. Mama was off gathering food, which was ideal as she had now taken to screech-squawking at me every time I was within 20 feet of the nest, despite my repeated efforts to tell her I was not interested in hurting her little family.

I offered my greeting to the babies, then took two steps before Mama swooped down over me, causing me to shriek bloody murder and fling my watering can skyward. The ruckus startled the babies, and in a heaving feathery mass, they propelled themselves from the nest.

“WHAAAAAAAA!” I screeched, as I ran back into the house, slamming the door closed behind me.

“What!!?” JT barreled toward me. “Are you OK? What happened?!”

I bent over at the waist, gasping for air. “The babies!” I heaved. “Committed suicide!”

“Um, what?” JT was not appropriately alarmed, so I grabbed his hand, led him to the door, and pointed at the now empty nest.

“Where'd they go?” he asked.

“I have no clue! I got the hell out out of there!”

“What did you do to upset them?”

“Nothing!” How could he insinuate such a thing? Had I not come this far in overcoming my bird prejudice? Why would I start committing hate crimes now? JT's eyebrows remained raised.

“I swear! I was just doing what I always do and Mama freaked the fuck out! The babies got so startled they jumped to their doom!”

“Well, did they fly away? Maybe it was just time?” JT peaked out the door again, and I spied over his shoulder. 

We scanned the yard. Not a single sign of the babies, other than a few feathers gliding across the patio. Cautiously, JT opened the door, and I followed him out. I spotted Mama Bird, perched on the garden fence and squawking to high hell. She was flipping out, jumping from one end of the fence to another, flapping furiously and generally throwing a fit. This was not good. Had the babies' maiden flights gone as planned, she'd likely not be convulsing with hysteria. We peered at tree branches, and eventually spotted one of the fuzzy haired babies, sitting a bit wobbly on a branch. He seemed dazed, teetering awkwardly when a slight breeze blew, but not overly worse for wear. I knew there had been at least three, if not four babies in that nest. So where were the others?

“Found one!” JT shouted, drawing my attention to the high grass on our overgrown hillside. Sure enough, there was one of the babies, the grass climbing higher than his head. He was flapping his wings, but had no room to get anywhere, so he resorted to hopping but even that wasn't getting him very far. I leaned in closer to get a better look when a blur of dark brown flashed within a half-inch of my face.

“Holy shit!” JT screamed as I hurled myself backward. “That Mama Bird is pissed! You better leave her baby alone.”

“But he can't fly! He'll die! He'll be stuck in these weeds until night when a raccoon or cat will come and eat him! I think we need to get him back in the nest!”

“You better get a second opinion on that one,” JT said. “If you touch the baby, won't the Mama abandon it?”

I frowned. Damn, I think I had heard that somewhere. I mean, in my book, touching birds is always a no-no, but I'm pretty sure touching baby birds is like the worst thing you can do in life. I decided to call an expert, one of my best friends, ironically named Robin, who has pet birds. The fact that I remained her friend after learning that she not only loves birds but WELCOMES THEM INTO HER HOME VOLUNTARILY is a true testament to my affection for her, I think.

“Wear gardening gloves, scoop him up, get him back in the nest and get the back in the house. That Mama is going to be mad,” Robin said. “Make JT swing a broom around your head to keep her from pecking your eyes out.”

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“You can do it! I believe in you!” Robin said.

“That makes one of us.” I hung up, grabbed the broom and sucked in a deep breath.

I gave JT his assignment, which he gladly accepted because it meant he didn't have to try to capture the baby. I personally thought picking up a teeny bird was better than essentially using an adult one for batting practice, but what do I know?

It took some doing, but JT eventually found the baby again. He'd managed to make it all the way down the hill and had reached our shed. He cowered between it and the fence, trapped. Do it now! I told myself and with shaking hands and gritted teeth, I reached down. He flapped his wing, and I screeched, hopping backward into JT, who was flailing the broom wildly at the insanely irritated Mama Bird hovering above.

“Try again! You can do it!” JT screamed, a hint of total panic in his tone.

“OK!” IcandothisIcandothisIcandothis.

I reached again and plucked him up in my cupped hands. “I got him!” I screamed, then took off. I propelled myself forward and made it up the hill in about ten long strides, screaming, “I got him! I got him!” the entire way. Once I reached the top, I lurched up on my tiptoes, dumped the baby in the nest, then backed away, hands up in the “I surrender” pose. This seemed to satisfy Mama, and she calmed down a bit.

I bent over to catch my breath, and when I stood up, JT was looking at me, awestruck.

“I am so proud of you!” he said, bringing me in for a hug, and I finally let myself relax. I had done it. I did good! Years and years of bird hating erased with one selfless act. As we released, I looked to the nest.

It was empty.

The baby had jumped again, and was hopping his way back to the grass.

“Oh, for God's sake,” I said, grabbing him and putting him back again.

Two seconds later, he jumped again.

“OK, so what the hell was the point of all that?!” I demanded from JT. “I overcome my lifelong fear, give myself multiple heart attacks and for what? Nothing!”

“Oh, it's not for nothing,” JT said, bringing me in for another hug.

“Just imagine the essay you'll get out of all this.”