The Dead Fowl Standard

Right after college, my roommates and I moved into a brand-new federal style townhouse off of the U Street Corridor in Washington, D.C. It was only a few blocks from Adam's Morgan, but at the time, the neighborhood was still considered very much "up and coming." (Today, the same area is mostly luxury condos and high-end retail, but that was not the case in 2001.)

I, however, could not have been more infatuated with my living situation. The house had gorgeous hardwood floors, a lovely balcony and even a garage. (You have no idea the premium on something like that in D.C.) I also had the master bedroom complete with two closets and a bathroom that had a shower and a whirlpool tub. The $825 I paid each month in rent was way too high a percentage of my salary, but it was comparable with what all of my friends paid, and I had a spectacular house two blocks from the Metro station. I was more than willing to put up with the occasional panhandling or "get out white bastards" greeting in exchange.

But, while I was completely comfortable with my surroundings, I sometimes forgot to warn visiting friends that we weren't in Georgetown anymore. (For those of you who have never been, Georgetown is a very wealthy neighborhood, and you can tell at every turn -- from the gorgeous row houses to the Armani store.)

A friend of mine decided to visit one day while she was in town from Alabama. Since her mother lived in Arlington, Virginia, we both figured she'd have absolutely no trouble taking the Metro to meet me at my new home.

When she was an hour late, I called, but figured she was just running behind and couldn't get reception on the subway. When she was two hours late, I was worried.

Just as I was about to call in the cavalry, I saw a figure that looked like my friend wandering the alley that ran behind my house. (I was on the back balcony.)

"Susan," I yelled, and she raised her head. "Why didn't you come to the front door?"

As her figure came into better view, I could see that Susan looked far more exhausted than seemed appropriate for a gal on vacation.

"Thank God it's you," she said. "And I would have come to the front door if I could have found it."

I quickly brought Susan into the house, poured her a glass of wine, and listened as she recounted the story of her continually delayed train ride and the treacherous one and a half block walk from the Metro station to my house. The highlights? Someone threw a shoe at the back of her head, and someone else tried to sell her a dead pigeon.

"A dead pigeon?" I said.

"It was wrapped in newspaper," she said. "He gave some thought to the presentation."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I'd be more than happy to pay him if he wouldn't make me take the pigeon."

Once Susan had recovered from the trauma, we spent the rest of the night drinking wine and catching up, and that dead pigeon became a kind of standard of ours. You got lost? It was terrible? You drove around for hours? Hey -- at least there wasn't a dead pigeon.

We found that the benchmark worked in a variety of situations. Bad break-up? Dressing down from the boss? Expensive shoes that can't be returned? It could always be worse. There could have been a dead pigeon -- and no one wants a dead pigeon shoved in their face.

Fast forward a few years: I'm working for a new magazine, and we've decided to put together a picnic photo shoot in a local park.

Unfortunately, nothing went right that day. A crowd of obnoxious 12-year-olds (who I still think should have been in school) surrounded us to ask insipid questions. The day was unseasonably hot, and everything melted (including us and our makeup). The ground was uneven. We spilled wine on the white picnic blanket. It seemed that the entire shoot was coming apart at the seams.

Shortly after the wine spill, my boss handed me some wrappers to throw away from the food we were "styling," and I walked over to the trash can. As I leaned over to toss in our garbage, I came upon a foul smell and sight. Someone had decided to throw a dead goose from the nearby pond into that very trash can.

Luckily, I was able to turn around before my stomach did a complete flip-flop. And even though the circumstances were far from favorable, after all that work, we were going to get a shot, dammit -- which also meant we'd have to stay near that dead goose for at least 20 minutes.

Again, once we cleaned up, got out of the unbearable sun and found some cocktails later in the evening, we made the dead goose our barometer for photo shoots and all else production-related. A writer didn't turn in a story on time? The photographer was a no-show? An order came from upstairs to slash half the magazine? At least there's not a dead goose.

Why dead fowl are a continuing theme in my life, I don't know. But, in these trying times, I think I'm going back to the standards I set with them. The checking account balance may be low, and the hours may be long, but at least none of my days have involved dead pigeons or geese.

I'm hoping it stays that way.