Friday, June 4, 2010


My first guest post! Allow me to introduce Lola (name changed to protect the guilty), the cheap cookie lover and formerly a neighborino of mine before I made the big suburban move. While Lola does not, in fact, technically live in a suburb, she has quite the suburban tale. I was witness to the subject of her story and knew I couldn't do it justice. So here she is! Lola, Internet...Internet, Lola. Take it away!

I have a stalker. A bald, beady-eyed freak I spotted holed up in a tree overlooking my balcony. “Hope you’re getting a good look there, you creep!” I shouted. “Gobble, gobble, gobble!” said the creep. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have a turkey in my tree. And before you all think that that’s some new euphemism or hip new band name, let me assure you that this is an actual turkey. The kind I enjoy at the end of November.

Of course, I may be wrong on that one and this is no ordinary turkey – this one can scale trees. Because I never in my life thought turkeys could fly that high or perch, like this sucker is doing. It’s the Superman of all turkeys. I guess it picked my tree as its Fortress of Solitude. Or maybe the punk enjoys intimidating the residents of my building, most of whom are over 80. In fact, there was a sign posted in the lobby of my building the other day that said management was well aware of the invasive feathered visitor and advised us to shoo the turkey away if it approached. “Don’t let the turkey intimidate you!” the bulletin warned.

Easier said than done. I have to admit to a bit of cowardice on my own part here, robust young whippersnapper that I am. But in my defense, at least the old ladies are armed with walkers! I had nothing but a Swiffer broom to defend myself with when I ventured out on the porch to check up on the damn bird. The unwanted visitor, in the meantime, had no intention of leaving. From the looks of it, it was settling in for the night. We both stared at each other for a few minutes. There’s no way the broom was long enough to reach the tree, I realized. I tried slamming the balcony door a few times, thinking maybe the noise would scare it away. Nothing doing. Finally, I gave up and retreated.

Now, I have some splaining to do. While my friend Stephanie is kind enough to post this as a guest entry on her Suburbia blog, I do not live in the suburbs. Not really. My neighborhood is considered to be within city limits so really all I should see up in my emaciated urban trees are either ACTUAL stalkers or maybe some delinquent city squirrels. Perhaps a gimpy pigeon or two. Not nature in all its untamed glory. Certainly no evil little bald heads glaring at me with their beady eyes.

Maybe some of you will think I’m being too hard on the turkey. If the Turkey Defense Council or People for the Ethical Treatment of Turkeys are reading this, don’t e-mail me! In my defense, I didn’t go at it with a broom nor did I chuck any fruit at it, which, by the way, was readily available.

The next morning, I went up to the balcony window. I had to make sure the whole turkey experience wasn’t just a hallucination. The tree was empty. I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when I noticed something much less savory than a fat turkey with no regard for zoning restrictions or personal property. That something was a dead squirrel. Lying on a tree branch. Smack-dab in front of my balcony. Did I mention it wasn’t moving?? Suddenly, I caught myself wishing for the return of the turkey – a big but live animal would still smell better than a small dead one.

My eyes were still glued to the little furry corpse when said corpse suddenly twitched and sat up. Before I could drop on my knees and shout “Hallelujah, it’s RESURRECTED!” the squirrel yawned, stretched and looked around. It looked grumpy and had a bad case of bed head. Or branch head, I guess. Then, just like a true night owl forced to rise early, it groggily started making its way down the tree. The little bugger’s morning ritual was so human, I was half expecting it to scratch its ass and then grab a donut and some coffee. For all I know, it was heading to Starbucks.

Before I could do anymore musing on nature and its weird ways of interacting with me, I realized I was going to be late for work. So I grabbed a donut and some coffee and groggily headed out the door. At least my hair wasn’t a mess. That squirrel needs to get its paws on some styling products.

1 comment:

Keely said...

Wild turkeys definitely can fly, but I have no idea what one was doing there. A conference with the squirrel, perhaps.