Counting (Dead) Crows (In Which My Klutziness is to Blame for Ornithological Tragedy)

It’s not a pleasant phenomenon, but lately I’ve been noticing bird carrion everywhere I go.  (How’s that for a lead?) First, there was one on the balcony, decapitated, that Mr. Glib had to clean up (yes, I gave him rubber gloves).  Then there was one in our back driveway. And I’ve seen two in the past half-week or so, just prostrate on the sidewalk, in varied stage of mutilation.

My Wrecked Life and the Life of Others

I resisted Googling this trend, which would have certainly confirmed it a sign of the apocalypse. Each time I passed a poor little feathered friend, I offered up hopes that they would come back in the next life as a higher life form – a family dog, perhaps, or Fergie.

But this weekend, I finally put two and two together. The rash of dead avians is in direct proportion with the amount of careless iPhone incidents I’ve had. Four dead birds, four iPhone incidents.  Note that numbers 3 and 4 occurred within THREE DAYS OF ONE ANOTHER.

1. My phone dropped out of my pocket and slid across the bedroom. Mild pixel damage.

2. My phone dropped out of my hand at work, landed just wrong on the carpet, and lost half the screen, including the keyboard. Luckily my touch memory was enough that I could still text.

3. With parts from two different phones and some assistance from the fine folks at Chicago Smart Phone Repair, I was back in business. So back, in fact, that I spend my former boss’s birthday party (Monday) texting and ESPN’ing about the Cardinals game (wild-card race, people!). Fake-annoyed, said former boss takes my phone away to the dance floor.  Drops it. Multiple times.  At least he paid for the new LCD and glass screen…

4. …which were summarily waterlogged fewer than 24 hours later (Thursday) when the phone toppled out of the back pocket of new jeans into – where else – the toilet. Ironically (or not), I had just tucked the phone in my pocket to keep it out of harm’s way on a tabletop.

Before anyone comments, I am not taking this lightly.  Each incident was met with increasing degrees of self-recrimination and sadness. Yes, I am klutzy and irresponsible and should have a Nokia flip phone from 1999.  I’m well aware. But it’s also the birds’ fault.

The scarier part is – I’m not alone.  My friend Molly spotted a dead bird on her patio mere days before injuring her iPhone screen.

The bigger coincidence?  The new iPhone is set to be announced tomorrow, and those of us with phones on their eighth or ninth life will have little option but to “ooooh, ahhhh,” and buck up for the privilege of pre-ordering the next generation.

I’m not saying Steve Jobs is spending his medical leave sending all of us grim feathered harbingers of doom, but I bet there’s an app for that.


Sense of Self (In Which I Revisit Airport Foibles)

I’ve never radiated confidence. Not because I’m not self confident (okay … I’m really not, by the way), but just because I’m not the type of gal to radiate it. You know who and what I mean.

From college roommates to co-workers, I’ve known several girls/women throughout my life who epitomize the type of effortless confidence to which I refer. Always put-together, always classy, always scrubbed and coifed and perfect-postured and sure-footed. Generally well manicured, though I don’t really care about that part.

The rub is … they were all, at the same time, absolutely pleasant and nice and FUN and not the slightest bit snooty. Not even aware of their poise and grace. Just … enviable in their simply perfect nature.

I try to be one of those girls. And since my friends and family know I am not (my imperfections are charming, I’m sure…), the best place to fake this is the airport, in a sea of anonymity. Because I was always taught so (and because I’m either flying to a friend or family member or back to my boyfriend), I try to look nice when I’m flying. Makeup applied, hair blown dry, decent outfit. I carry my laptop, so I can work when I’m away, so I also look professional. My iPhone makes the walk through the terminal more bearable, and it makes me look hip and aloof.

Photo Courtesy of lunchtimemama

Do I care what these anonymous fellow air travelers think of me? No, not really. But just once, I’d like someone, even that complete stranger at gate B-27, to think: “That’s one together woman. So classy. Check her out one time.”

And yet, my bumbling self betrays me. On my flight out to Cleveland [last Thursday], I summarily dropped my boarding pass in the (unflushed) toilet, so had to tell the middle-aged male gate attendant of my plight. (He printed a new one for me without asking to see the old one – score one for me).

Then, struggling to load my carry-on into the overhead bin, I spill Starbucks cider on my Gap pants. Oh, the trappings of yuppie-dom attacking me at every turn. Sigh. Not confident. Not perfectly pulled together. A big sloppy mess of urine and cider and humiliation.

Walking to the gate just six days later, bopping along with my carry-ons and my iPhone, I’m almost to my gate, shoulder and knee throbbing in pain after the long walk with too many pounds slung across my right shoulder.

A gentleman taps me (I couldn’t hear him calling out, you see, because I’m SO EFFING COOL with my white earbuds permanently attached). Turns out my boarding pass (damn that thing) has fallen out of my pants pocket. So disorganized and so sloppy.

So this is just me, I guess, try as I might to look the part of a successful yuppie woman (which I basically AM), and walk with pride. And that’s fine, but how do people become like my college roommates or my confident co-worker? Is it possible they feel like I do? Is it possible I give off their air and just don’t know it?

Mmm. Doubtful, but definitely something to think of. Every dog has its day, after all.

MmmBop. Believe It.