Angry Singing's Second Cousin

I had one of those days yesterday that I'm pretty sure no one would believe unless they lived it. Since all of you that have been hanging around Ruby Red Hearts for awhile know my ridiculous life, I'm pretty sure you're the right audience to share this story with. You all will just smile, roll your eyes, not bat and eyelash and go on with your day. As if my life. I will forewarn you that I've been angry typing all night, so hopefully this blog doesn't look like one big billboard for angry typing. If I were Niecy Nash, though, I'd approve of angry typing, because it reigns just below its distant second cousin, angry singing. We all know Niecy isn't having any of that. Amen, girl.

My day started out normal enough. I got up, got my coffee, tried a new creamer that I was vastly unsure of but will drink anyway because I don't want to waste it, and then I put on my invisible suit and became an exterminator. Yep, I didn't know I was an exterminator until yesterday either, you guys. I walked into the cat room to clean it out and was attacked by a hundred or so ants, exact number pending, and one really large wolf spider who got sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. I whipped out the bug spray, went to town and was quite proud of myself. Then I went into my bathroom.

My hopes were dashed quickly when I saw hundreds of little ants, some carcasses, some jackasses, running around my floor. It was extreme and utter chaos, and my second run in with ants this year. I sprayed, I cleaned, I cried, I pretended I wasn't crying and hadn't had enough with those mother trucking ants on my mother trucking bathroom floor, and then gave up and went ape shit on them with the vacuum. The important thing is that they're gone, and I didn't have to even get certified to murder them. But if the cops come looking for me because I'm now considered an ant serial killer, help me hide the bodies, you all. And that wasn't even the weird part of my day.

Up until yesterday, there was something else I didn't know. I'm apparently a bird magnet. Now, if you know me at all, you know I'm about as good with birds as Zak Bagans is with snakes. They flap and flutter, and it's just bad road. So imagine how I felt when I looked up just in time to see one fly onto our porch and in our back door that was open so the dogs could go in and out of the fenced in yard. Twenty five years I've been alive and have never seen a bird fly right into the house.

As luck would have it, though, this wasn't any ordinary bird. This was super hyperventilating bird, who someone managed to get himself so worked up that he passed out upside down on one of our lawn chairs and forgot to move again. Feeling bad for the little bird and thinking that it might be the opposite of alive, I reached out to it while geeking out about it in my own head. I told myself I was doing it for the good of the bird, but that still didn't seem good enough. I just figured at that point I was stone cold crazy and moved on. Low and behold, as soon as that sucker was in my grasp, it was suddenly just fine and alive. Talk about an angry bird.

Over the next twenty minutes, Peeved Off Pete, as I would like to call this bird regardless of gender, flapped around our front porch like no one's business. It was a fight to the finish, but I finally got the little bugger outside. It never even thanked me for the help, but it did teach me something. Never trust a bird. Ever. If you think they're dead or hurt and will be grateful for your help, they won't. It will just make them want to peck at your beady little head more. You can chalk that up to another lesson learned from Ruby Red Hearts. You're welcome.