Sunday, February 5, 2012

A typical Saturday in glamorous Hong Kong

This is how my Saturday went:

I wake up bright and early at 11:00 am and stumble to the kitchen for my morning red bull and almond roca soy milk and banana, and through bleary eyes I think I spy bird poop on top of my fridge. I know this is impossible.

"Hey Kelly... is there... can there be bird poop in the kitchen?..."

Okay, so I'm on my own. I look again. Yep, definitely bird poop. Not an issue, I guess. I leave the kitchen window open at night so maybe a bird flew in, perched on the fridge, read a newspaper, and flew out. Fine.

But then I walk into the living room. Poop EVERYWHERE. It's like a balloon made of poop filled with poop was popped with a straight pin made of poop and it exploded in my flat. Which is also now made of poop. Poop on the sofa. On the floor. On the rug. Inside a cardboard box we had sitting out from yesterday's grocery delivery - yes, it got in the box specifically to poop.

I'm following around this trail of poop like an ornithologist with a serious fetish problem and then I come to the final poop... and it's still wet. Omygod the bird is still here somewhere. Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod.

Before I go further, let me explain that I do not like birds. At all. For one, they insist on making loud repetitive screeches (seriously, guys - learn some new noises) at times when most civilized people are trying to sleep. But also, I had it ingrained in me as a child that birds are dirty. For some reason my mother, who was perfectly fine with my sister and I running around half-clothed and barefoot and engaging in our favorite pastime of blowing up dog shit with M-80s, told us to never touch a bird. In my kid brain, that put birds in a class of filth of their very own. And nothing I've ever seen has disabused me of that notion. So, yeah. I don't like birds.

At this point I'm huddled in the corner with huge eyes hissing at Kelly to get his ass out of bed because there is a bird somewhere in our house RIGHT NOW AND I AM FREAKING OUT. He shuffles in, takes in the scene (pausing to shoot me a pitying look for rocking back and forth in a ball in the corner) and begins to follow the poop trail himself. He looks everywhere - under the sofa, inside the light fixtures, in my pile of shoes that's lying by the door because I couldn't figure out what to wear yesterday because look I wanted to wear heels but dammit I have to walk around Central all day and if I go to Soho later for a drink those cobblestones always screw me up and I'll probably break my ankle so fine ugh flats great now I'm going to be late for work.

Anyway, the bird is nowhere to be seen.

So apparently this bird waited until we went to bed, snuck in our kitchen window, had a big old poopfest of an evening while we slept, and snuck back out just before we woke. I've said it before and I'll say it again - birds are assholes.

Saturday was redeemed, however, when a few hours later a friend brought over a bottle of this Chinese wine - I think it's called Mui Kwe Lu -

This stuff is glorious. It tastes like tequila with a hint of rosewater. You can get it in Sheung Wan - go buy some right now. After a few cups, all the scraggly birds in Tuen Mun couldn't dampen your mood.

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