Isn't there a lifetime limit for that kind of thing?

So I'm taking my daughter out of the carseat in the back of the van when, plop, there it is, bird poop on my coat. This is not the first time this has happened to me. No, my friends, it's not even the second. It's the third. Do we think that's above the norm for how many times a bird-crappeth-upon-a-person? But at least it didn't hurt, because the last time it happened it about knocked me out.

Let's go back to the summer of 2001, shall we? The husband and I were up north in Michigan and all of a sudden I was ready to turn around and smack him because I was pretty sure a rock had just my head. But was it a rock? Nope, it was the giant stone-like turd of one of those big seagull type birds that are constantly flying way too close to our heads here in this great state of ours. The husband (who was then just the boyfriend and is pretty lucky he got the upgrade) thought it was pretty funny, especially considering we had just tried to check in at the hotel and they told us our room wasn't going to be ready for a couple of hours, therefore I had to walk around with greasy yellow avian fecal material in my hair. I have to hand it to him, though. He did do a pretty thorough job trying to wipe it out with a newspaper or something similar, which was the only paper product we seemed to have in the car. So much for a romantic walk along the waterfront.

So I suppose in the scheme of things, a little birdy poop on the fleece pales in comparison with the poopbomb that nearly caused a closed head injury.