The Luckiest Girl in the World?

You know how people sometimes ask each other what their super hero power would be if they had one? And then people come up with all sorts of awesome answers? Like being invisible, or flying, or context clues, or mind reading, or being able to speak all the languages? I have thought long and hard about what my super hero power would be. I mean, what would be the best possible power to have with the least possible number of moral issues? Being able to see through things — like walls — would be awesome but then, you know, privacy concerns and also being a total creeper. Reading minds might be neat but then you might find out things that you really don’t want to know about people you like — for example, their obsession with ferrets (gross!) — which might then make you not like them so much and, also, make you a total mind creeper. Basically, I would ideally have a super hero power that would give me the ability to do something awesome, without making me any kind of creeper at all. I pride myself on being as close to 0% creeper as possible. After lots of thinking, and really not very much progress, the world stepped in, probably because my ridiculous ethical concerns in the midst of imagination games are incredibly annoying, and told me not what my super hero power would be if I had one, but what my super hero power actually is. Ready for it? Drum roll please.

My super hero power is getting shit on by birds and also other animals that spend time in trees.

Yea, yea, yea I know. It might not seem like a super hero power but bear with me here. I was talking to my friend Asher* over drinks the other night and he said he never, not in his entire life, has been shit on. I have been shit on three times in 2014 alone! And the year isn’t even over yet! There are plenty more opportunities for me to be walking around under trees, minding my own business, and then feeling (and let’s be honest hearing) that familiar <splat> and just knowing, deep in my bones, exactly what that was. Let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we? (Experiences recounted in no particular order.)

(1) There was that one time I was sitting on a bench in Union Square doing some reading for grad school when all of a sudden <SPLAT>, squirrel shit all over an article about malaria. And it like rolled into the binding too and I tried to shake the book to get the shit out of it, but I am fairly certain it left a nice little schmear in there.

(2) I was running, proudly, in my brand new bright pink Adidas running top, having a wonderful time when, you guessed it, <SPLAT>, bird shit on my shoulder that then somehow oozed all down my arm and also splashed onto my right boob.

(3) I was in India with two of my friends and we were heading back to the hotel after a very eventful, yet ultimately unsuccessful, journey to visit a temple with some animatronics (we made it to the temple but, surprise surprise, the animatronics were not working). As we approached the final stretch I looked up and noticed a rather disturbing thing: there were hundreds, and I mean hundreds, of birds perched on all sorts of surfaces. Some people might have thought this was a foreboding of some future misfortune but I, knowing the realities of my life, turned to my friends and said “see all those birds? One of us is most definitely going to be shat on.” And sure enough, no sooner did the words leave my mouth than <SPLAT!!!>. All over my shirt. It was as if a fucking pterodactyl had taken a dump on me. I have never seen so much shit in my life.

I could continue but I really think the India shit story takes the cake. Anyway, so the other day I was on an adventure with my friend Ben when we decided to sit on a bench under a tree. You would think that by this point in time I would decide that sitting on benches under trees, or doing anything under trees really, would be something I would avoid at all costs but no. I sat there. And no sooner did I sit than I felt the smallest little <splat>. Obviously I freaked out because it really doesn’t matter how many times you get shit on, it is always jarring and very upsetting. Ben, being the good team player that he is, cleaned the cleanable shit out of my hair with his bare hands and then remained friends with me when, after arriving at a place with a bathroom, I totally left him standing at the bar while I retreated to the bathroom first like a complete and total asshole. In my defense, I panicked and also, even after washing my hands and the portion of my head that had been crapped on, I still had poop on my person whereas he had no poop left after washing his hands but whatever, I’m making excuses. This event is from here on out, in our friendship, known as #PoopGate. It was not my finest moment.

So here is the thing about being pooped on. Whenever I tell people I got pooped on (which happens incredibly often, relatively speaking) they always say “that’s good luck!” I am calling bullshit. The only reason that people tell you it is good luck is to make you feel better about the fact that you have shit on your head. Or your shirt. Or where ever. It is just a way to put a silver lining on a rather shitty (hehe) situation. Also, as I mentioned, I have been shat on 3 times so far this year and this has been my unluckiest year ever! All the stupid things have happened. Until the other day because, the other day, I was at work, minding my own business when, who should arrive and sit down at my bar on a Tuesday afternoon? Little Pete from Pete and Pete! And let me tell you, he looks exactly like he did when he was 11, only older. I know that sounds weird but it is uncanny. And, while internally I was exploding from sheer excitement, externally I pretended he was a normal, every day non-child actor dude because that seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t even ask him about Petunia. This was exceedingly difficult for me. The only thing that might have been better than Little Pete from Pete and Pete showing up at my bar would have been if Alex Mack showed up. I loved that show. And in fact, to this day about once a month I daydream about how awesome it would be to have the ability to morph myself into a puddle and escape all sorts of awkward and potentially dangerous situations. Or, like, get home faster when you get caught in a freak rainstorm as I did last night. I try not to think about the long-term side effects of having been involved, at a young age, in some weird chemical accident because that might take the shine off things. Anyway, I digress.

So there he was, Young Pete from Pete and Pete and I realized, hey! Maybe this is the luck. Maybe this is the moment that all the shit was leading up to! The moment where I got to complain to Young Pete from Pete and Pete about how aggressive some people are about the sports that we have on television and how you never hear me bitching about how bars won’t play gymnastics with the sound for me when ever it’s on (which isn’t often). He thought that was funny. Anyway, so when he left we had a little convo:

Little Pete from Pete and Pete (LPfP&P): I never got your name. I’m Danny, it was nice talking with you.
Me: Rebekah, likewise. Hopefully I’ll see ya in here again! I’ll be here Mondays.
LPfP&P: Cool. I’m in a band and do some sketch comedy. Look me up.
Me: Great! Will do!

I was like a volcano. I wanted to be like “I know who you are and I also know that you recently performed at The Bell House, maybe with Big Pete from Pete and Pete, because I was secretly texting with my friend Kris about you and she told me and we freaked out a little!” But I didn’t say any of those things. I stayed strong. But Pete, if you’re reading this, you might have been the answer to all the bird shit. So, that’s a thing.

*I know, our blogs use the same design theme! Total coincidence and totally weird! Meant to be friends!