A birthday and my greatest fear

Ronnie decided he wanted a very laid-back kind of birthday this year, so we decided to do a BBQ at home. Simple enough.

What we did not expect was this when we opened the grill:

Granted, we hadn’t used the grill since February, but still—it was a shock.

This leads us to my greatest fear—birds.

Birds of any shape, size or color.

Obviously I did NOT help clean up the grill so we could begin. In fact, I didn’t even actually step outside. I peeked around the corner from the doorway, got the gist of it and then waited (inside, with the door closed) for picture evidence to look at more fully. I was convinced that the mama bird (there were several egg shells on the ground), would come swooping in to rescue her home.

While I have never especially enjoyed birds (the bird show at Sea World was torture for me), my fear did not truly materialize until after I watched Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds” my senior year of high school.

I didn’t like the little finches my Grammy kept for a year or so, I hate the parrots that street vendors always seem to have about, and I have been known to duck and cover in the park when the seagulls are getting too close for comfort.

I know it is not rational.

I know they are more scared of me. (Or is that coyotes?)

But nevertheless, birds are scary.

And icky.

And if you are reading this and trying to come up with a way to scare the bejeebees (sp?) out of me—think again.

I will peck your eyes out if you do.