Why does everybody always reference Alfred Hitchcock to me?

You know, certain types of things just build up. Like an aversion to Steve Carell.

Steve Carell. I am not discussing his off-screen personality, just that suddenly he was so smarmy-ily everywhere.

Or getting tired of Robert's Chicken Salad. Or, of course, a fear of birds.

What? You don't have a fear of birds? Well, have you really looked??! These things are unpredictable, erratic, they have sharp beaks, and well, did you even see Jurassic Park? They are descendants of the crazy scary raptor dinosaurs, remember?

Anyway, I guess I should explain myself. It really all started with this one parrot named Petey. He lived in the pet store next to my university campus, and I occasionally visited to look at fish or figure out what the hell a chinchilla was. Well, Petey had it out for me. It wasn't that I was that special, it was just that he could smell my fear. Why, you ask? Well, he swooped. He would fly the aisles if he felt like it and buzz you like a plane from Top Gun.

End school, end association with Petey, right? Well, no. Years later, interviewing a couple who had exotic birds in their home, once I got past their converted dining room floored with poop-coated paper, we made it outside to discuss birds on the deck.

The husband came out with a parrot on his shoulder and sat down at the deck picnic table. I swear I could almost feel that parrot's eyes narrow at me like, Do we know each other? I continue on with the interview, and, yes, Petey, keeps sidestepping my way, closer, closer ...

"Hey, that reminds me of a parrot that was in a pet store near UNCC," I say casually.

"Oh, Petey, yes, he IS that parrot. We rescued him!" the husband answered triumphantly.

"Well, I think I've got all I need for the article, " I say, closing my pen. "It was great to meet you," I say over my shoulder as I head for my car.

But I know that crotchety parrots don't populate the world. And so I visit a friend's house who has an urban henhouse. I really want an urban henhouse, and I want those fresh, gorgeous eggs. She says, "Pick one up, they're really sweet."

I already have crusty sand in my cute sandals, and these things flap a little as I lean down. "Oh, I can't, maybe next time." We go in and never speak of the recent awkwardness. It. Never. Happened.

Then there was a few months ago when I was housesitting for a dear friend and a female cardinal got trapped in the screened in porch. Armed with a bath towel, broom, and lots of screaming, I attempted to  not injure the poor thing while help her out the door. I failed, went back in the house and tried to telepathically communicate to her the way out. Hours later when I checked, she had received the message. Thank God.

I want to think that I can whisper the birds in an empty church into calmness, like the sexy Jude Law in Cold Mountain.

Just imagine this mug, but holding a scared dove. Better than Steve Carell, right?

But I just can't. I am often in White Point Gardens in the early morning, and I hear weird bird noises and flapping in the live oak trees above. I try not to look, but one day, I did. I noticed a full-grown egret taking off from his low-built nest. Have you seen their spearfishing beaks??? Well, I am sorry for the screaming ... I got a hold of myself by the time I reached Water Street, ok?