Feeling Squirrely

When I was 19 years old I lived in Dinkytown, which is the off-campus hipster part of the University of Minnesota. (Bob Dylan lived there in ancient times! This fact is exponentially less impressive to the college kids every year!) I worked at Veseuvio*'s, a somewhat suspect Italian restaurant just a couple blocks from my apartment. Oh, the stories I could tell about the employees and that restaurant. That job left me with a misguided but lingering attraction to softball-sized meatballs. My other job that summer, also in Dinkytown, was working the front desk at the campus-owned apartment building that housed many of the athletes. Again, I am laden with stories from my work there. That job left me with a misguided but lingering attraction to male gymnasts.

One warm summer day, I walked from Job B to Job A. I was feeling fancy in my so-not-work-appropriate-what-the-hell-was-I-thinking hot pink built-in bra Express tank (Awesome! No need to wear a bra!***) and white stretch Express capri pants and flip-flops. And then, suddenly I was stepping on something firm, yet squishy. Something that squeaked in a horrible way. I looked down and a bird head was under my foot. I stepped on a bird. In flip-flops. That did not leave me feeling fancy. Rather, it reminded me that I am the sort of person who steps on birds.

*Name changed to protect the suspect Italian restaurant. Also, to avoid lawsuit.

***There was a need to wear a bra. SO MUCH NEED.

When I was 32 years old, I lived in the Western burbs of the Twin Cities. My job was my children. There was a certain amount of overlap between my job as a stay-at-home mom and my jobs as a waitress/hostess and caterer-to-sometimes-simple-yet-highly-confident athletes. Lots of drink fetching, explaining of basic concepts, and cleaning of messes - both physically and interpersonally. Also: many tantrums in all three jobs.

One warm summer day, I was headed to the library with my children. I was feeling kind of fancy in my sporty-hip workout skirt & tank. And then, suddenly the wheels underneath Oliver's seat thumped over something. A rock? No, seemed to pliable for that. A piece of sod in the road? Oh, please be that. I rolled backwards to inspect, which meant another thump. The kids were delighted. Mommy is such fun!

Fur. Puffy tail. Little hands. Pointy ears. SQUIRREL SQUIRREL SQUIRREL! OMG I JUST RAN OVER A SQUIRREL!

This wasn't a fresh-dead squirrel. This was rigor mortis squirrel. Is it better to run over a live squirrel or a dead one? A fresh-dead squirrel or a rigor mortis squirrel? These are the questions I asked myself after squealing and jogging to the other side of the street.

Surprisingly, I did not walk away from this moment feeling less fancy. No - I felt MORE fancy.

Because how many people step on a bird AND run over a squirrel with their stroller in their lifetime? Not many, I bet.

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