Wherein I use the word CRAP ten times

I remember the first time I heard a story about being crapped on by a bird. I've never seen someone get crapped on, but I thought it sounded like the most horrifying, embarrassing and utterly unrecoverable misfortune that could befall a person. Perhaps I was a teenager, and perhaps that assessment is a bit dramatic, but come on. Crapped on. In public. Crap on your being for all to see. CRAP. From an animal I hate, no less.

No, I don't hate birds, but I do hate pigeons and seagulls, the disease-riddled birds most likely to use humanity as their toilet. Jordan once told me his aunt got crapped on at the pier and I was filled with sympathy and horror. He just thought it was hilarious, which is why I won't be telling him the following story.

On Tuesday I had a FABULOUS lunch at Galanga with Naseem and Brier. The Panang curry and spicy mint noodles had never been better. We even convinced a couple of people walking by our window table to make Galanga their lunch spot, because we were that much in love with our food. I kept doing the happy dance. Good food can turn my entire day around.

As we walked back up State Street, satisfied and enjoying the sunny weather, I saw it coming. Saw it in slow motion, but was utterly unable to avoid the inevitable. Up from the sidewalk flies the filthy thing, beady eyes looking for the whitest shirt on the block. At first it was flying about head level, and I thought, "My gosh. That bird's going to run into my head." But then he pulled up and there, barely perceptible beneath his ascent, a small green missile, aimed unmistakably at the blank palette of my shirt. Powerless to move, I could only squeak my surprise and horror.

Always the gentleman (and after a hearty laugh at my expense), Brier dashed into the nearby pretzel shop and had to give a blow-by-blow description before the clerk would give him a napkin. If you've never been crapped on by a bird, perhaps you don't know that said crap does not come off with a napkin. Or with water. Or with water and hand soap from the office bathroom. I have my fingers tightly crossed that Shout! stain remover lives up to its names and shouts out my pain. That was my favorite white shirt and that bird knew it.

So the big question is: Was it as awful as I had always imagined, this crap attack? Did I almost die of shame in the street? Did my friends refuse to walk the rest of the way with me? Actually, the worst part was that this was the one time Brier didn't have his camera with him to document the scene. Because I have to admit...seeing someone get crapped on is pretty funny. Even me.