These are not the Hammer.

Phew.

Our social worker contacted us today. A family emergency, now mostly resolved, had kept her from the office, but she's back and will complete our homestudy this weekend.

I'm more than relieved-I could feel the depression and defeat I've been smothered under lift once I knew that we could move forward without having to begin again. We would have needed to wait until February to redo all of the home visits and necessary appointments, what with my absurd schedule over the next three months.

I am hoping that all will be well and that we can start matching soon.

Whither and whence the whinging?

I don't know if it's the shifting weather patterns or that everyone is fed to the teeth with Dino Rossi's teeth-gnashingly oily and insinuating election commercials, but there has been a definite tendril of rudeness wafting into my environment today. This morning's bus driver, after reluctantly stopping for me as I ran down the cigarette butt-littered sidewalk, waving at him as he pulled away from the curb, chastised me, as I breathlessly climbed the stairs, to "Move faster next time." Even my winning smile just succeeded in making him look more disgruntled.

Then, upon arriving at my chilly office, a terse and accusatory email from an accounting unit on campus was waiting there to accuse me of not performing my duties, despite evidence in the form of an email from August proving that I had, in fact, done exactly what they asked me to, and it was, to be precise, said accounting unit's fault for not keeping me abreast of developments as I am not privy to any successive communication between the troublesome accounting unit and the sponsor. And this charming epistle received more than a year after my initial attempt to solicit the aid of the truculent accounting unit over this very issue, which they ignored except in a cursory manner until nine months after the previously mentioned first contact and despite my repeated attempts to address this issue with them, the only organization who could accomplish my required task. Oh, and, at one point, they told me they had lost the file.

And, to add a layer of ice to the permafrost which is my day, the shipping rep on the phone repeatedly interrupted my responses to her questions with the phrase, "I understand that, but..." in a crisp and almost crunchy tone quite unlike the one of simple syrup sweetness spooned over me at the outset of the call.

What for the ornery and combative mien, Mr. Bus Driver? Why you up in my grille, Accountancy Bizznatch? Must you be so gosh darn mean, Shipping Lady? I promise the election will all be over soon, and, if it's the cold that ails you, I hear Florida is lovely this time of year. And, if you relocate to that sunny, tropical shore, you can help swing that state to Obama! Won't that feel good? Won't that put a smile on that grumpy face?

Chelonian Crusader

In my fantasy life, I am a superhero, living in the jungles and on the seacoasts of Costa Rica, fighting to save sea turtles from human predation and parrots from horrifying harvesting practices used in the illegal pet trade. In real life, I'm just torturing myself by frequently searching Petfinder and Craigslist for unwanted parrots, and boy, do I find them, in tragic spades shaped like insufficient cages littered with inappropriate perches and nutritionally deficient seed as the only food.

It's the special needs birds who make my stomach clench and blood vessels dilate with worry and longing. It's the plucked macaws and the semi-blind juvenile Amazons (a four month old orange-winged Amazon whom I want to buy and love and kiss and hug but my mean husband won't let me near enough to smuggle out in my coat) who make me wish that we had the means to build a bird room right now and give all of these troubled little souls a place where they'll be loved and can rely on us for everything they need and want. I mean really, what's one more bird? Or twelve.

I've said it innumerable times on this blog alone, but I wish there were a way to truly educate everyone in the world about care of exotics, especially parrots, as any creature with the average intelligence of a kid in preschool requires exceptional provisions which cannot be attended to without extensive research. The World Parrot Trust works uphill towards this goal and they even have John Cleese promoting their work, but the public at large has little interest in the issue, as most of them are unaffected. It's not those people at whom I'm pointing my finger of reproach.

I want to prevent parrots from being sold in pet stores, from being impulse buys, from being traded like baseball cards and sold like old couches on free websites. I want every parrot purchase to be either from a licensed, inspected, reputable, loving, small aviary breeder or rescue organization. No mills, no chain stores, no seed, only cage and enrichment requirements and proper diets, and no need for the ASPCA to intervene.

There's a part of me, and not a small part, that wants to quit this singing nonsense and do something worthwhile. Maybe I can somehow couple my zeal for saving the chickerns with my notion of opening a laundromat for the homeless. And I just now realized that I have a Messianic complex. Be saved!

Resignation

I think we're going to have to start over with the homestudy. It's been a month with no word from the social worker, and I'm just about fed up. If the market hadn't uttery collapsed and we were able to get financing, this would have been an even more aggravating problem, but I supposed the disaster has bought us a little bit more time. I'm dreading having to do all of our paperwork over again, but I'm willing to do it if we absolutely have to. I suppose this is another test of how much we want a kid.

Sitting on my Hands

Things I'm waiting for:

1.  The homestudy to finally be complete so we can send it to the agency.  

2.  The financing to come through.

3.  My conflicts to be okayed by one of the companies I'll be singing for so I can buy plane tickets to and from Spokane before the prices go up.

4.  The agency to review our dear birthparent letter and photo portfolio so we can make changes and get it back by the time our homestudy is done.

5.  A possible reclass at work so I won't have to be an assistant anymore.

6.  The election to be over so I can stop wondering if we are inevitably descending into a fascist state.

7.  This week to be over so we can finally start rehearsals and I can stop wondering if people are going to find out that I'm a hack and fire me.

It's all out of my hands.  Not even buying yarn will make my waiting tolerable.

Reluctance

You know why Sasha's looking straight at the camera? He's subliminally telling me that he's only allowing Christian to hold him like this because I'm on the opposite side of the room, and that he'll bite my face off if I come any closer. I used the zoom. It was necessary for my health and well-being.

Good Bones

It's a sprain, we had Pierre's tiny wing x-rayed at the emergency clinic by a vet who actually knew about exotics, which was surprising and nifty.  She also had fantastic hair.

She gave us three days of pain meds compounded with an anti-inflammatory and he's already showing improvement.  As a bonus, she gave us Pierre's digital scans so we could bring them to our regular vet, so they must, of course, go on the blog:

Tiny chicken head!  Look at those wee, wee boneses!  So dainty, he is.  Poor sweet injured peanut.  You can see the damage on the left hand side, the grey by the left elbow is the mass of swelling.  In larger birds, the injured wing is usually strapped to the body so it remains immobile, but a bird as tiny as Pierre would be quite difficult to find a wrap that wouldn't double his inconsiderable body weight.  Hee hee.  The image makes me giggle.  Tiny mummy.  But, he's now resting comfortably, drugged, in his corner-free plastic container.  He's my problem child. 

Protect them from me.

I am a curse.  I am a jinx, a plague, a blight, a scourge.  Pierre has now injured his wing, and it's completely my fault.  He's in a round Rubbermaid container to keep him from having a place to strop his beak and reopen his injury, and that container was on top of the secretary in the bird room.  The cord for the heating pad underneath was hanging down in front, and the secretary must have been too full, as the front door opened, pulling his container down with it.  He sprained his wing in the fall, and the joint is swollen.  The vet is closed until tomorrow, but the doctor isn't in until Tuesday, so we're going to give him cayenne pepper as a natural anti-inflammatory until we can get him in.  He can still use the wing, he's holding it slightly away from the body, as I don't think the inflammation will allow him to close it completely.  

I don't know what more I could possibly do to that little bird.  We didn't separate him and Fritz and he received his beak injury, we didn't anticipate that he would continue to try and clean his beak and he repeatedly reopened his injury, and now I actually caused an injury to him, directly.  I should be forcibly separated from the birds.  I shall henceforth be known as Typhoid Suzy.

Backfiring

On reading about Joe Biden (from www.ontheissues.org):

1. Given an F grade by the NRA regarding pro-gun issues.
2. Rated 0% by the NRLC, indicating a pro-choice stance.
3. Rated 16% by the Christian Coalition, indicating an "anti-family" stance.

Since the enemy of my enemy is my friend, I guess this makes Joe Biden my bestest chum ever.

Self Infliction

One of the things I didn't anticipate when Pierre got injured was that he would continually try to get off of his beak whatever it was that was continually annoying him.  This is obviously a problem as what's annoying him is the lack of beak.  Preening has become mostly impossible, but he sadly tries, and frustratedly shakes his head every time he fails to use the remnant to get his messy feathers ordered.  Because the parrot beak has a hole at the base and the two disparate sides can only join together in the egg, the lower mandible is only partially attached once broken, and must feel loose.  

When Christian went in to visit with the birds, he saw that Pierre's face was covered in blood, and that blood had splattered all over the hospital cage as well.  It was a horrible sight, and poor Pierre was still pushing his beak against the perch, most likely trying to make the pain stop.  We cleaned him up in warm water, and could see that he had stropped the live, remaining piece of beak until it pulled away from his jaw and bled.  The bleeding stopped and, once clean, we wrapped him in a towel and scratched him until he calmed down.  We returned him to his warm cage with the heating pad turned up and he even ate, which was unexpected.  For such a tiny, fragile little bird, he's a fairly resilient little bugger.

However, my biggest concern now is that he will repeatedly re-injure the beak until the piece that is left dies as well, and, as our vet doesn't have a call system, we couldn't contact her to ask what we should best do to prevent this from happening tonight.  I'm at an utter loss to know how to keep him from hurting himself.  He's had such a tough little life so far, I just want to make him happy and contented.  I suck at it so far.

Demographics

Et tu, Walgreens?  I know I said that my childhood doctor thought I had a health history far more advanced in age than my actual chronological years would indicate, but I thought you knew me better.  I mean, I know you fill my prescriptions for asthma meds and even once, before a trip, tranquilizers, but a free AARP membership coupon with my purchase? 

I understand that the purchase was of hemorrhoid wipes and stomach acid reducer, but come on, lots of people my age have hemorrhoids and leaky esophageal valves.   Don't they?  

Parts

It's been said by mothers and fathers throughout eternity that good things start to happen when we stop looking for them or have, let's be honest, stopped caring whether they happen or not.  Well Mom and Dad, you were right.  Once auditions stopped causing me to gnaw my fingers off and wet my pants a little, I started getting work.  The scales of wisdom have tipped in your favor.

Five kinds of awesome.

Why did I eat that chicken salad? I knew it had been in the fridge too long, even though it smelled fine. I seemed to remember leaving it in the food processor on the counter for a few hours right after I made it, but I then refrigerated it and consumed some on crackers with no ill effects. So why did it turn on me so, causing vast digestive distress and dry heaving 12 hours after the final serving was eaten? Why, on top of a respiratory infection, did I have to get food poisoning? Because I'm apparently Homer Simpson, that's why. I could never stay mad at you, chicken salad.

Tragic and Unnecessary

Christian and I spent a while at the courthouse today, as we had to get fingerprinted for our adoption application, just in case we are hiding that we're international jewel thieves who need a third with really small hands to fit into those unreachable back corners of safes.  We had to wait for the fingerprinting technician and were sitting in the lobby when a young woman came in, pushing her shirtless two year old son in a stroller.  The lobby was for both the fingerprinting/gun permit office and for filing civil and small claims cases and restraining orders.  The woman approached the latter desk and spoke with the clerk, and attempted to communicate her story of an abusive ex-boyfriend and papers being served to her fraudulently, but, in her anger and frustration, she wasn't able to explain herself sufficiently to allow the clerk to understand and be of any assistance. She said over and over that she had been in a safe house when the papers had been supposedly delivered and that she was going to have to leave the state to escape her ex-boyfriend's violence.  She said that he was trying to get custody of his son, and she didn't know what to do.  The clerk kindly offered to call a detective to see if he or she could be of any help, and the woman sat down to wait.  

As this scenario was playing out, the woman's little boy had been playing with the rain cover of his stroller, to her intense annoyance. He hopped out of his stroller and was about to start pulling on his mother, so I started talking to him to distract him long enough to give her a chance to do what she needed to do.  I asked him question after question, and heard his answers around the thumb he was loudly sucking.  I said above that he was two, but that's because he told me that was his age, whereas he looked closer to four due to his size.  He and I spoke for a while about nothing, and, as I had my phone out, thought he might like to see pictures of the birds.  So, we looked at those for a while, and he was fascinated by the birds as well as the way the phone flicked through the pictures.  He came to my side at one point and wedged himself between my arm and my side, and I have no idea how he did it.  That a child that little wanted to attach himself to a total stranger and his mother seemed relieved to see it made me terribly sad. 

When she was leaving, she made an effort to tell us that she was going home to change her son into more clothes as he had had an accident with his lunch, necessitating his shirtlessness.  I shared that Shelly and I had taken the boys to the zoo and, when they both wet themselves to soaking, had dressed them in whatever we could find, so I understood insufficiently dressed little kids.  She left, and the kindly officer who was on front door duty, who we could see through the door but not hear, pointed at her son with a smile and she laughed at whatever it was he said.  Everyone tried to be so good to her, but I could see that the life she had made for herself and the choices she had been required to make had taken away her chances of normalcy.  

Upon seeing a girl like her, I couldn't help but think of how her life is laid out for her now, and how, unless she and her son are both incredibly lucky, he will end up exactly like her, or worse, his own father.  And how would they change their fortunes when they are obviously alone, without even anyone to go with them to the courthouse?  

Women like her break my heart and make me feel spoiled and selfish, and also make me wonder if what we've heard said is true, that the women who choose to keep their children when they become unexpectedly and unwelcomely pregnant are often the ones the least equipped to raise their children.  Were their mothers like them, insufficiently educated and taught that their only value is in what they can give to men?  

It does break my heart so.  I hope that our adoption will help break this cycle for one family, at least.

Deeply Hung

I have a massive Fair hangover.  Four Dr. Peppers, barbecue, onion burgers, fries, elephant ears, livestock allergies and a first prize ribbon!  

Eat it, acrylic whores. 

For he's my dear, my darling one...

Happy birthday to the only man on earth who could challenge Gene Kelly for the title of best backside in the history of asses. You are awesome in every way, not the least of which is how amazing you are with people of all ages, and kids in particular. You are willing to perform such feats as running incessantly up and down punishing sand dunes in order to entertain tireless nephews, and that makes you spectacularly cool, in my opinion and theirs. You never shirk at doing hard or tiring things if they will make other people happy, and you seem to derive great joy from seeing others having fun that you helped make. You're also so polite, and really think before saying anything to those who need to be handled a little more gently. Because of this, you make them feel as though they are respected, and that's more than they usually get in their daily lives.

Thank you so very much, too, for the incredible work you've done with Sasha. He's a completely different bird than he was a year ago, and that's utterly because of you. He's so happy and content and well-loved because you cared for him enough to make an effort, despite the very difficult times at the beginning. It makes my heart burst to see him raise his little foot to his neck and invite you to scratch it every night before he goes to sleep. You're a softie, which kills me. I'm sorry I make you occasionally watch Animal Cops. I just really like to see the bad guys get theirs.

So, my smiling and beguiling one, I hope that, despite having to stand in line at the DMV, this birthday is the happiest, because you deserve it.

All my love,
Suz

A Quote for the Ages

While seeing absolutely no irony in their own criticism of Obama's perceived inexperience, Republicans defending Palin's inexperience in the light of Democratic party comment about the same (from the Guardian) had this to say:

"Tennessee congresswoman Marsha Blackburn suggested that Palin's work on the parent-teacher association of her son's school gave her useful experience for the vice-presidency.
'Every woman in this room knows that if you can handle being a room mother… a PTA chairwoman, Girl Scout cookie mom, there's a lot of things you have the ability, the organisational skills, to handle. She transferred those leadership skills to the political arena.' "

Yep, that's exactly what qualifies a candidate for nomination to the Vice-Presidency, a mean hand with the Girl Scouts, those little bitches. So, apparently, all Obama would have had to do to prove his readiness for leadership was chair his girls' PTA.

We won't even discuss the hilarity of this same group of women calling for a moratorium on discussing Palin's family situation (both teenage daughter's pregnancy and husband's DUI) when Michelle Obama has been out and out called a racist by this same group because of her Princeton Master's Thesis. Oh pot, stop teasing the kettle.

Why's it so cold out here?

If this doesn't make you cry, you are dead inside.

Cracked

Poor Pierre. He struggled at the horrible breeder's house, where he never even learned to stand, he struggles at our house as he can't be with his lover at all times, he struggles at the vet where he is today, getting a fractured lower mandible repaired. He's just a tiny, fluffy blue ball of woe.

Fritz and Pierre love each other, passionately. However, they fight terribly when in the same cage, so they each have their own apartments. But, as we are terribly permissive parents (enablers), we let them sleep together. If they aren't separated before they fully awake, though, they fight. They must have had quite a throw down on Saturday morning, left together longer than usual while we lazily slept in. Fritz had a bite on his eyelid, but Pierre seemed fine. However, yesterday morning, I noticed that he hadn't eaten many pellets, and he seemed far meeker than usual. I took him off his perch and saw that the lower right portion of his beak had been completely broken in two unevenly sized halves and that blood had filled his mouth. I threw on my clothes and ran him to our vet, only to see that they were closed on Monday. I ran him to the emergency vet, where they charged me $255 to give him fluids and a pain killer, and then told me to go back to my vet today. I took him home, made a little incubator for him, fed him warm, mushy food and watched him try to understand why he couldn't use his beak properly. It was tragic to watch him attempt to preen but stop in confusion, and then shake his head, as if to try and dislodge whatever was bothering his bite.

He's back at the proper vet now, where they are wiring the two separate beak pieces back together. He could grow it out, he could lose the piece altogether, we just don't know. We simply cannot allow the little birds to be together anymore.

Wow, this is surprisingly like parenthood.