Birdsh*t (A Story of Self-Preservation)

A weird thing about my office: birds.

I don’t know what those run-of-the-mill little brown and gray birds are called, but occasionally, they get into my department and realize that a wall of glass windows stands between them and the great outdoors. So they flit about until they fly down the hall, are caught and freed, or meet an untimely end.[1]

I’ve never had one try to poke my eyes out like the predatory pigeons that stalk my “bird in the office” nightmares. They just hang out in the rafters of our vaulted ceilings, concuss themselves on our many glass surfaces…

And shit.

They shit on the copier, on the windows — when they aren’t getting CTE crashing into them — and once, on my boss’s desk (you can guess who had the privilege of cleaning that mess).

When a bird gets in and I leave my open-air cubicle for the peace and quiet of an empty conference room, it’s always “Rob’s terrified of a tiny, harmless animal, isn’t it funny?” instead of “Rob’s terrified of being shit upon, a reasonable response when a bird is loose indoors.” Then they pretend twittering woodland creatures swooping by our heads as we answer emails and take sales calls is perfectly normal and I’m the weirdo.[2]

Now, I don’t know how comfortable my coworkers are with shit on their person. I don’t know how much care they put into their work attire. Or how much time they spend on their hair in the morning. I can say — unequivocally — that I don’t want bird waste on my person. Since I cannot control birds getting into the office, nor when, where, or if they shit, I control the controllable. In a conference room less than thirty feet away from my desk.

But once again, not putting up with shit makes me the oddball.

___

[1] One ended up decapitated under my desk when a coworker tried to catch it? Dislodge it because it was stuck? Can’t say for sure. RIP, bird.

[2] A member of the c-suite once told me that birds only shit when they’ve had food and there’s nothing to eat in the building, so I have nothing to worry about. Remind me to ask the next one if they went potty before they left the nest.

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a girl named rob

I used to be "skinny black girl." I'm now a slender woman on the other side of 35 with no new moniker who is not quite interested in writing under her given name. Still writing my life, a day (or some months) at a time. Also, still black.

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