Know your weaknesses

I've recently discovered a somewhat benign problem. Well, I guess I've known about it for quite awhile but now it appears to have worsened, for lack of a better term. I have an almost physical aversion to getting my hands dirty. Now, since I've got enough reasons for people to call me crazy (mostly with a look of amusement on their faces) I don't really like the idea of adding a legitimate reason (looks, instead of amusement, of concern or pity; maybe even horror).

The ironic thing is, I really enjoy working with my hands. In fact, I sort of harbor this dream of one day owning a repair shop. One that specializes in Toyota's, because, really, who works in their dreams?

Here is a story:

I recently purchased a house. During the inspection, I noticed a dead pigeon in a window well. 'Think you could have them remove that thing,' I remember asking the inspector guy ( I think his name was Gidget or Gadzip or something). To which he replied 'Yeah, no problem.' Problem solved, right? This relatively trivial request was the least of the requested services leading up to contract and what not. Any how, a couple of weeks later (or more, the timing really isn't important), I'm moving in and getting everything situated. In the midst of this situating I find myself downstairs doing what ever it is that I was doing, when I noticed a grey little shape outside the window inside the window well. Being the curious person that I am I say to myself, 'Wonder what that is,' and walk over to investigate. Now, being as how I had immediately put the question of pigeon removal out of my mind after having the initial conversation with Inspector Dueteronomy, I was quite surprised to see a dead pigeon in my window well. I even thought for a second, 'Wow, another one? The pigeons around here sure are prone to dying and falling in my window well,' before deciding that, no, its probably the same bloody, - figuratively speaking - stinking - not figuratively speaking - pigeon I saw during the inspection. Not being prone to emotional outbursts, I calmly considered my options:

a) Leave the stupid dead thing where it is hoping another critter would come along and dispose of it for me.

b) Remove the thing myself.

c) Have someone remove it for me.

Here is my reasoning:

a) Seemed like a sound decision until I considered the chances of having a larger and potentially pissed off carrion eater stuck in my window well. That or the carcass would rot into a grey pile of sludge and worms.

b) Yeah right, I ain't touching that thing.

c) Winner!

So, after deciding on a course of action I immedieately knew whom to call in. . . . Let me re-enact my phone call.

'Hello? Yes, is this animal control?' (This is me. In order to keep this as simple as possible, you'll only get my side of the conversation) 'Hi. Yes, I hope you can help me. There is a pigeon in my window well and I'd like you to come and remove it. What? No, its not hurt. I'm pretty sure its been dead for quite some time now. Excuse me? What do you mean you don't do that sort of thing? It is an animal. You're animal control. Come and, you know, control ... No? Ok, who do I call? You don't? Ok. Well, er, thanks.'

Who knew that animal control doesn't control all animals regardless of condition? I mean, its harder to control the live ones, right? Ok. So options 'a' and 'c' are no go. Now I have to prepare myself for option 'b.'

Here is how it went down:

I go downstairs. I approach the window with the deceased flying vermin from the lowest, dankest, darkest, seamiest, hellish, damdest bowells of Hades (poor lil guy). I open the window and look at ( the window is situated in such a fashion that the bottom of the window well is about even with my waist) the carcass. Its about the size of an adult pigeon, only its less, you know, lively. Its been dead a good deal of time, but not enough to attract a battalion of flies. I can only see one or two of the little bastards (The one thing I hate more than pigeons is flies. Actually, there are two things I hate worse than pigeons. The most hated little bastards are mosquitoes). Ok, so, this shouldn't be an issue. Then why is my breathing becoming more labored? Am I sweating? I'm in the basement, it aint hot down here! Ok, time to rethink. I step back and close the window. I go up stairs out to the garage and grab my yard gloves (these are black and rather stylish, for yard gloves). I put them on. I then go back into the house and make my way to the kitchen. There I procure a plastic garbage bag. This slows down my runaway anxiety a bit. To further reduce my heart rate, I also grab a couple of paper towels; one for each hand. This helps immensely. Ok, here is my plan: (if you like, you can hum the tune to "I knew an old woman") I'll use my gloves to grab the paper towels, I'll use the paper towels to grab the plastic bag, I'll use the plastic bag to grab the dead avian, hopefully the dead avian will keep its motley collection of flies in whatever stage of life their in... Perhaps I'll die. So, now that I'm all armored up, I make my way down stairs and to the dreaded winow. I look out the window. Yep, dead bird not walkin'. I look at the window again. I then look at my hands sheathed in layers of plastic, paper and cloth. Hmm. Back at the window. Back at my hands. Ok, layers are good for keeping warm and protecting against filth, not so good for unlatching windows. So, I quickly strip the protection from my limbs, open the window and as rapidly as possible, reassemble my 'suit of iron' aka yard gloves, paper towels and plastic bag. Ok. Now I'm ready. I step closer to the window and gingerly reach for the dead flying vermin. My breathing becomes labored. I feel like I'm becoming enclosed in a tight and uncomfortable place. Sort of like what it must be like at an NRA meeting in a Pearl Street boutique. Anyhow. There is no stopping now. I will myself to snatch up the prize. I urgently wrap it up in plastic and paper. I seal up the bag and sprint up the stairs. I snatch open the garage door and stumble to the trash bin. I flip open the lid and slam home the payload like a Michael Jordan 'slamma jamma' - before he retired the second time. You know, when he didn't look like an offensive lineman - and then I stand trembling, bent over at the waist, hands on my knees thinking 'this is ridiculous. I think I may hyperventilate.'

And before you start in on the sissy comments, I'll have you know that I'm a stud. ... So there.