Thursday, January 12, 2006

All I wear are turtlenecks

Picture this: It's a Thursday afternoon in January in Chicago. It's gorgeous outside, the weather's in the 50's. I figure I need to get out for the desk I've been sitting behind for five hours, pick up some lunch, and enjoy the sun. So I'm on my way back with my lunch in tow, strutting around nicely and marveling at the fresh air, when I hear a little plop and feel something hit my right shoulder with surprising velocity. I stop dead in my tracks, glance around to check for witnesses, and slowly turn my head towards the spot in question. There it was. The pigeon poop. I had been waiting for it for so long and there it was. I knew it was inevitable that those rats with wings would one day get me back for plotting their demise from the planet and trying to kick their extended family in the old country who pecked at my legs at St. Mark's Square in Venice. Surprisingly I handled myself very calmly for someone who had a green/brown lumpy bird diarrhea dripping down the sleeve of her jacket. I ripped open the carryout lunch bag, grabbed the napkin and wiped away, while swallowing the vomit that was slowly working it's way up into my throat. I carried that poopy napkin right on into my building, up the elevator, and flushed it right in my favorite stall #3. Applied a little soap action to my jacket shoulder and was almost as good as new. It actually could have been much worse. Had that pigeon been flying one little bit faster and dropped it's junk an inch to the left I'd have been crying all the way home to shower. Damn those pigeons.