When we first bought our little house, I hated the exterior paint with an intensity rivaled only by my hatred of country music and NASCAR. We knew that it would either cost us an arm and a leg or the love of our family to paint the house with a contractor ("You paid HOW MUCH to have your house painted?? We could have done it for FREE!"), so we waited until we had the time and money to do it ourselves. We had originally wanted to wait until the garage and kitchen were rebuilt/remodeled so all the paint would match, but it became the habit of everyone entering our house to pick off loose paint from the wall next to the front door, leaving a huge, gaping bare patch of siding, so we either needed to paint or get some mangy dogs and broken down cars in the yard to complete the picture of the perfect white-trash shanty. My parents have painted their house twice by themselves, my in-laws painted their house themselves and Chris and Angie painted theirs, and all of these well-meaning and completely insane people offered to help, so we decided that we would take time off and prep and paint in one week. Heh. Heeeeeeeeh heh. Heeee.
My parents had spent the previous week helping build a deck at my sister's house, so they were in town to move on to the next stage of back-breaking manual labor that would remind them of why they had never moved to Seattle to be nearer to us. We started last Sunday by power washing the house, which was not only fun but satisfying on a deep and profound level as the house was filthy. Only pigs could live in such a dirty home. Some of the loose paint was blown off by the water, and, as we washed, we walked around the house to get a good look at the condition of the existing paint and gauge how much work would need to be done. The whole east side of the house was a nightmare. It was peeling and flaking and the many layers of paint from the first to the last coat had never been removed, just lightly sanded and painted over, so there were patches that looked like an example of sedimentary rock in a science class film about erosion. We knew beforehand that we would have to strip some of the house, so we sent away for the Silent Paint Remover, which turned out to be worth its weight in gold. We turned the SPR onto the worst parts of the paint (which turned out to be pretty much the lower half of the entire house) and it was like a peely miracle. The thickest paint would bubble and come off in huge sheets with a deft flick of the $1 scraper we all fought over, leaving only pinkish, pleasant smelling cedar siding exposed. I had no idea that stripping paint would appeal so strongly to my sickening obsession. I could have used that sucker on the entire house if I had had enough time. I should have purchased it instead of renting it. I could have walked around the neighborhood with a really long extension cord trailing behind me looking for paint to peel on my neighbors' homes.
For the first two days, we scraped and scraped and Christian went to work and came home and we were still scraping and I started to think that we just might not get this whole job done in a week. I got very upset and had one of those embarrassing breakdowns one only has with ones parents as one feels that she is twelve and being told that she can't wear those jeans out of the house as they are too tight and one has to cry and lock herself in the bathroom to regain her composure.
The inlaws joined us on Tuesday, God love 'em, and Christian had the whole day off, so we made some extensive progress with so many hands. I had to leave and go to the opera where I, of course, injured myself. I think it was a parting shot from the Levaquin. I had been on ladders and scaffolding all day and was so exhausted that I biffed it twice in my costume shoes and heard a pop in my ankle. By the next morning, the bone was the size of a golf ball and it hurt to glance at it out of the corner of my eye. I was relegated to errand runner and meal cooker that day. Guilt. Guilty, guilty, guilt guilt guilt.
The week before we started prepping, Christian cut back all of the climbing plants on the front of our house, and our porch let out an audible groan when the wisteria was removed as the plant was the only thing holding up that half-assed set of toothpicks. The more we looked at the bare porch, the more we wanted to rip it down with our bare hands, so we called the contractor who had built Tina's deck and hired him to start construction at the same time we were painting. We had the grand task of prying off the hateful decking that was screwed to our porch instead of actual contiguous material that would prevent my heel from catching every time I walked up the stairs. To save on labor costs, we bought $1,700 worth of wood ourselves, of which my sneaky mother in law bought a good portion and wouldn't let me pay her back. Guilt. Eeeeee with the guilt.
As the week wore on, more people who I thought would rather be doing anything other than the vile work we had cornered ourselves into, showed up. Angie stripped windowsills and sanded and taped and generally was a rock star. It did seem, though, that the prep would never end. There was always so much more to do. The bottom half of the house was done, but the top was flaking at me in defiance of my wishes to be finished in time to take a nap Sunday afternoon. Lynn and Sal had to leave Friday afternoon and my parents had to leave Saturday as Jayden's birthday party was in the middle of the afternoon. We would be all alone, and we only had one side of the house primered. Mom put in an amazing day of work on Friday and single-handedly scraped, sanded and primed the back of the house by the bathroom. But they were leaving!
And then the second shift showed up.
Chris and Rich came over after work on Friday and bolstered us up. They sanded and scraped and Angie taped and we primered the rest of the front of the house. They moved the scaffolding and Chris held Christian up while he scaled the peak of the kitchen to sand the eaves, wearing javelin spikes for traction. Thank God I was at the opera and didn't have to witness that.
So, as of today, three quarters of the house is primed and half the windows are painted trim-wise. The kitchen wall has to be sanded and the ceiling of the porch needs to be scraped, but we'll be done by this weekend. And our friends are coming back. I don't know what on earth we did to deserve all these wonderful people, but there it is.
And if anyone ever tells me that I should do any more house projects myself, I'm going to brain them with a paint can.
Pictures in the next post.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Bad, bad week.
Why is this week going so poorly? What hateful planet is in my house, what evil mojo has been worked on me that, no matter where I go, annoyance and vexation follows?
Monday: Did everything wrong at work. Health issues of this summer causing me to not be able to concentrate. Had wrong room number on one boss' calendar for a meeting she was chairing, and she sent out a reminder over the weekend with the incorrect room number. Had to call meeting participants and sort out. Brought other boss back from trip a day late and hotel dropped his reservation. Still no housekeeper. It was her day, she hasn't shown up but once (and then promptly left again) in the past two weeks. Broke bowl, birds angry at me for not being home all day. Aggressively bitten by Fritz.
Tuesday, still no housekeeper, no message. In addition, forgot wallet at work, and didn't' realize it until in checkout line at Safeway getting groceries to make dinner for Christy, who was coming over to watch Auntie Mame. Get in car, hobbling as legs very much hurting, to head back to work, only to find that all traffic lights between me and work out. Traffic v. bad. Turned and went home.
Today, woke up more exhausted than when went to bed night before. Haven't slept more than a few hours in past few nights as muscles are so sore and painful that am constantly awoken by knives in back and hips. Called in to work sick a half day and forgot that Mariner's game at 1 would make traffic horrific. Bird to vet for vaccinations and may have to have beak dremmeled down as crooked beak can cause jaw problems. Poor pooper.
I'm taking next week off to paint the house with the parents and inlaws, and I don't know how I'm going to stand for long periods of time. If anyone wants to temporarily donate their legs to me, I'll graciously accept, and give them back in excellent but possibly slightly paint-stained shape.
Monday: Did everything wrong at work. Health issues of this summer causing me to not be able to concentrate. Had wrong room number on one boss' calendar for a meeting she was chairing, and she sent out a reminder over the weekend with the incorrect room number. Had to call meeting participants and sort out. Brought other boss back from trip a day late and hotel dropped his reservation. Still no housekeeper. It was her day, she hasn't shown up but once (and then promptly left again) in the past two weeks. Broke bowl, birds angry at me for not being home all day. Aggressively bitten by Fritz.
Tuesday, still no housekeeper, no message. In addition, forgot wallet at work, and didn't' realize it until in checkout line at Safeway getting groceries to make dinner for Christy, who was coming over to watch Auntie Mame. Get in car, hobbling as legs very much hurting, to head back to work, only to find that all traffic lights between me and work out. Traffic v. bad. Turned and went home.
Today, woke up more exhausted than when went to bed night before. Haven't slept more than a few hours in past few nights as muscles are so sore and painful that am constantly awoken by knives in back and hips. Called in to work sick a half day and forgot that Mariner's game at 1 would make traffic horrific. Bird to vet for vaccinations and may have to have beak dremmeled down as crooked beak can cause jaw problems. Poor pooper.
I'm taking next week off to paint the house with the parents and inlaws, and I don't know how I'm going to stand for long periods of time. If anyone wants to temporarily donate their legs to me, I'll graciously accept, and give them back in excellent but possibly slightly paint-stained shape.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Is it pink-red or brown-red?
We're painting our house next week. This is one of those tasks that I usually believe should be left to professionals, but as we don't have that extra $10,000 lying around and I certainly don't want to take out a loan, we're tackling that treacherous home-owner learning curve with the aid of both sets of parents, our neighbors and an infrared paint remover. The last item is intriguing and hopefully will be as efficient as promised. The videos of stripping paint on the rental website were almost pornographic and made me want to pull out old copies of This Old House I had hidden under my mattress and lovingly stroke the glossy color photos of freshly painted houses.
We've decided on a color called Roycroft Copper, a dark brownish-red that sounds hideous when I describe it (too much like dried blood) but looks beautiful on the house. It's from the Sherwin-Williams Arts and Crafts Home collection, and God knows they must be right. The trim will be alabaster white. I honestly think I chose this particular white because of the simple name. I can't take descriptions like "Fair Virgin Lily" when I choose a color.
In anticipation of painting, Christian had to cut back the wisteria, which seemed to be the only thing holding up our ancient and badly-built porch:
The wisteria is most likely around 30 years old, and cutting it seemed like a sacrilidge, despite its alien-like aggressive growth tendencies. Whenever we go away in the summer for more than two days, we come back to long tendrils reaching for the house and wrapped around the porch swing like they're going to crush the bedroom in a vegetative embrace. I just know that, if we were gone for more than a week, we'd come back to a throbbing green mass of vines and sweet-smelling blossoms. So, it'll grow back.
We know the porch looks like fifteen kinds of crap. We'll rebuild it with stone and cement and sturdier wood when we have accrued large sums of money from nefarious activities. I never thought I would wish to be a criminal, but owning an old home that needs work makes one think outside the strictly legal box.
Christian also cut back the flowering hedge that had been lovingly trained by the previous owner but one:
All of the privacy afforded by the hedge is gone, and we can see waaaaaay too much of the neighborhood now. The trellis filtered the light so nicely and sheltered us from the screaming WT house-of-a-thousand-occupants across the street.
I shall report our progress with pictures. Of course, by the end of next week, my entries will most likely consist of, "Can't....go...on....the scraping...God...THE SCRAPING!"
We've decided on a color called Roycroft Copper, a dark brownish-red that sounds hideous when I describe it (too much like dried blood) but looks beautiful on the house. It's from the Sherwin-Williams Arts and Crafts Home collection, and God knows they must be right. The trim will be alabaster white. I honestly think I chose this particular white because of the simple name. I can't take descriptions like "Fair Virgin Lily" when I choose a color.
In anticipation of painting, Christian had to cut back the wisteria, which seemed to be the only thing holding up our ancient and badly-built porch:
The wisteria is most likely around 30 years old, and cutting it seemed like a sacrilidge, despite its alien-like aggressive growth tendencies. Whenever we go away in the summer for more than two days, we come back to long tendrils reaching for the house and wrapped around the porch swing like they're going to crush the bedroom in a vegetative embrace. I just know that, if we were gone for more than a week, we'd come back to a throbbing green mass of vines and sweet-smelling blossoms. So, it'll grow back.
We know the porch looks like fifteen kinds of crap. We'll rebuild it with stone and cement and sturdier wood when we have accrued large sums of money from nefarious activities. I never thought I would wish to be a criminal, but owning an old home that needs work makes one think outside the strictly legal box.
Christian also cut back the flowering hedge that had been lovingly trained by the previous owner but one:
All of the privacy afforded by the hedge is gone, and we can see waaaaaay too much of the neighborhood now. The trellis filtered the light so nicely and sheltered us from the screaming WT house-of-a-thousand-occupants across the street.
I shall report our progress with pictures. Of course, by the end of next week, my entries will most likely consist of, "Can't....go...on....the scraping...God...THE SCRAPING!"
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Shackles for one in the tenth level of hell.
My grandma was robbed last week. My teeny little 86-year-old grandmother was awakened at 4 am by her enormous and useless German Shepherd as he needed to go outside to wallow in the dirt in the fenced in backyard garden, and no other time would do. After letting him back in, she heard a knock at the front door. She opened it slightly to see who it was, and found a young woman who was claiming that her car had broken down and she needed to use the phone. My grandma opened the door enough to allow this young woman to push her way into the house.
Now, there are several things you need to know about my grandma and her financial situation. She is the mother of six children, who were all raised on my grandpa's income as an Air Force welder. They live in a very working class, fairly poor neighborhood, in which their house is most likely the best cared-for, as Grandma is very particular. They have never had any debt, paid off their house many, many years ago and my grandmother still walks her one utility bill to the utility company's office every month, check in hand. Grandma is living off of my deceased grandpa's small pension, their slim retirement and Social Security. It has been sufficient as her needs are small. Whatever is not provided for her by her own income is provided for her by her six children, all of whom live in her town.
Returning to the narrative, this person, after pushing her way into the house, apparently ran about babbling "Money!" as she looked for a purse or wad of cash to just to be lying about waiting for her filthy, disease-ridden clutches, which, as you can see from the explanatory paragraph above, is absurd. My grandma, being the plucky broad she is, told the girl, "If you're looking for money to steal, you came to the wrong house." The whore-bitch-from-the-depths-of-Hades did find Grandma's purse and took the small sum of cash from her wallet and ran out, but not before pushing Grandma to the ground, perhaps as a parting shot for not having anything portable worth stealing. Fortunately, we have sturdy bones in our family, and Grandma is taking an osteoporosis medication that helps the bones stay strong, so nothing was broken, but she was bruised up one side of her body.
There is no instance that I can point to more clearly than this next bit to demonstrate how strongly the "Don't Impose" mentality is imprinted on my family. Grandma waited four hours to let anyone know she had been robbed and, when she did, she didn't call the police, she called my Uncle Mike, who called the police himself. Apparently, the events caused quite an uproar, and Grandma was on the news and in the paper. I'm still looking for the story, which better not have been buried under all this Israel crap.
If they ever find the girl who did this to Grandma, there will be no hole deep enough to protect her from the Family. For once I'm glad Uncle Wayne has those shotguns.
Now, there are several things you need to know about my grandma and her financial situation. She is the mother of six children, who were all raised on my grandpa's income as an Air Force welder. They live in a very working class, fairly poor neighborhood, in which their house is most likely the best cared-for, as Grandma is very particular. They have never had any debt, paid off their house many, many years ago and my grandmother still walks her one utility bill to the utility company's office every month, check in hand. Grandma is living off of my deceased grandpa's small pension, their slim retirement and Social Security. It has been sufficient as her needs are small. Whatever is not provided for her by her own income is provided for her by her six children, all of whom live in her town.
Returning to the narrative, this person, after pushing her way into the house, apparently ran about babbling "Money!" as she looked for a purse or wad of cash to just to be lying about waiting for her filthy, disease-ridden clutches, which, as you can see from the explanatory paragraph above, is absurd. My grandma, being the plucky broad she is, told the girl, "If you're looking for money to steal, you came to the wrong house." The whore-bitch-from-the-depths-of-Hades did find Grandma's purse and took the small sum of cash from her wallet and ran out, but not before pushing Grandma to the ground, perhaps as a parting shot for not having anything portable worth stealing. Fortunately, we have sturdy bones in our family, and Grandma is taking an osteoporosis medication that helps the bones stay strong, so nothing was broken, but she was bruised up one side of her body.
There is no instance that I can point to more clearly than this next bit to demonstrate how strongly the "Don't Impose" mentality is imprinted on my family. Grandma waited four hours to let anyone know she had been robbed and, when she did, she didn't call the police, she called my Uncle Mike, who called the police himself. Apparently, the events caused quite an uproar, and Grandma was on the news and in the paper. I'm still looking for the story, which better not have been buried under all this Israel crap.
If they ever find the girl who did this to Grandma, there will be no hole deep enough to protect her from the Family. For once I'm glad Uncle Wayne has those shotguns.
Monday, July 31, 2006
They would be a delicacy to some rainforest tribes.
For the frogs and turtle, we purchase little lidded tubs of waxworms (wws) and superworms (sws) every week. Gwendolyn loves the sws and can eat up to ten in a sitting. The frogs love the wws, but they're quite fatty, so we have to limit their intake. You have to refridgerate the wws so they don't pupate and, we can only give the pets limited wws, they pupate very quickly if they are left out. You're NOT supposed to refridgerate the sws as they pupate at cool temperatures.
When we got the last batch of sws, the container was quite cold from being in the fridge at the store, and the worms were not as active as they usually are. I noticed that some of them looked very dark and had a strange shell. It turns out that they had started to metamorphose and I didn't know it as I had never seen a sw become a pupa. Now, when the wws change to their adult form, they become pretty little moths. The sws, it turns out, become enormous black beetles. How do I know this? I reached in to the frogs vivarium yesterday to take out the old sws in their little bowl and a beetle crawled onto my hand. Gaaaaaaack. Any bug that is too big for the frogs to eat does not belong in my house, so into the bushes they went. Christian said they actually thumped when they hit the ground, they were so big. I can't control the shuddering.
When we got the last batch of sws, the container was quite cold from being in the fridge at the store, and the worms were not as active as they usually are. I noticed that some of them looked very dark and had a strange shell. It turns out that they had started to metamorphose and I didn't know it as I had never seen a sw become a pupa. Now, when the wws change to their adult form, they become pretty little moths. The sws, it turns out, become enormous black beetles. How do I know this? I reached in to the frogs vivarium yesterday to take out the old sws in their little bowl and a beetle crawled onto my hand. Gaaaaaaack. Any bug that is too big for the frogs to eat does not belong in my house, so into the bushes they went. Christian said they actually thumped when they hit the ground, they were so big. I can't control the shuddering.
Friday, July 28, 2006
To my beloved husband on our 5th anniversary:
Hi schweetie, can you believe it? Five years we've been married, and, while I know I'm most likely cursing us for saying this, wasn't it supposed to be harder? I mean, we've had our moments like everyone else, but there isn't one of those moments that I would take back.
There are so many things about you that have surprised me, mainly your affable adaptability. I had no idea when I married you that you would be such an excellent travel companion, and that you would let me obsessively plan and not make fun of me. You have embraced the alterna-pet lifestyle with aplomb, feeding frozen mousecicles to the snakes, growing broccoli for the birds and turtle and picking out live superworms for the frogs. You understand, as not many people do, that giving way sometimes does not mean rolling over. I have to learn that better. I MIGHT let you get the PGR steering wheel for the XBox. Maybe.
I listen to my singer colleagues who have trouble with their significant others/spouses and the amount of time that singing takes away from the relationship. I don't say anything to them because it would sound like I was gloating, because you not only understand the need, but you share it, just in a different venue. We've never fought because I had to go to rehearsal again. It's the other way around; you make sure that I get where I need to be when my resolve has failed me. I wouldn't have gotten two of my upcoming gigs if you hadn't convinced me to go to the auditions.
The biggest lesson I've learned over the past five years is that security is not financial abundance, because I don't feel any differently about you with or without money. Security is, I know now, coming home to a place where you are, a place where I am always safe. If home is where one hangs ones hat, my home is where you hang your hat.
I love you, Mooky. Happy anniversary.
There are so many things about you that have surprised me, mainly your affable adaptability. I had no idea when I married you that you would be such an excellent travel companion, and that you would let me obsessively plan and not make fun of me. You have embraced the alterna-pet lifestyle with aplomb, feeding frozen mousecicles to the snakes, growing broccoli for the birds and turtle and picking out live superworms for the frogs. You understand, as not many people do, that giving way sometimes does not mean rolling over. I have to learn that better. I MIGHT let you get the PGR steering wheel for the XBox. Maybe.
I listen to my singer colleagues who have trouble with their significant others/spouses and the amount of time that singing takes away from the relationship. I don't say anything to them because it would sound like I was gloating, because you not only understand the need, but you share it, just in a different venue. We've never fought because I had to go to rehearsal again. It's the other way around; you make sure that I get where I need to be when my resolve has failed me. I wouldn't have gotten two of my upcoming gigs if you hadn't convinced me to go to the auditions.
The biggest lesson I've learned over the past five years is that security is not financial abundance, because I don't feel any differently about you with or without money. Security is, I know now, coming home to a place where you are, a place where I am always safe. If home is where one hangs ones hat, my home is where you hang your hat.
I love you, Mooky. Happy anniversary.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Completely outnumbered.
It's a boy! We got the news today. So, he shall be named Cyril. Out of all eight pets, only two are girls, Gwendolyn and Persephone, and then me. It's the house of testosterone.
Poor little pooper had his well-bird check up today. He's lost 20 grams from the stress of changing homes, so we're going to give him (that's hard for me to say-I kept calling him "her") lots of treats to fatten him up and reward him for being such a good bird for the vet. He's been microchipped and vaccinated and had bloodwork drawn, which was terrible, I understand (not having been there to witness it), as they couldn't get the neck artery and had to clip a nail and take blood from the bleeding vein. Shudder. Gack. He seems in good health, though, and the shop where we bought him has an excellent reputation for well-adjusted and healthy birds. We'll get the bloodwork results back on Friday, and then all will be well. What a good birdie.
Poor little pooper had his well-bird check up today. He's lost 20 grams from the stress of changing homes, so we're going to give him (that's hard for me to say-I kept calling him "her") lots of treats to fatten him up and reward him for being such a good bird for the vet. He's been microchipped and vaccinated and had bloodwork drawn, which was terrible, I understand (not having been there to witness it), as they couldn't get the neck artery and had to clip a nail and take blood from the bleeding vein. Shudder. Gack. He seems in good health, though, and the shop where we bought him has an excellent reputation for well-adjusted and healthy birds. We'll get the bloodwork results back on Friday, and then all will be well. What a good birdie.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Cure vs. Disease
I've been taking a drug call Levaquin for the staph infection in my foot, and a potential side effect is soul-sucking, life-draining, will-to-live-destroying muscle and joint pain. I want to cry, go home and lie on the couch and whimper.
Oh, but C3 said "hi" to me this morning. That makes everything much better.
Oh, but C3 said "hi" to me this morning. That makes everything much better.
Monday, July 24, 2006
A Parrot Pictorial
We brought Charlie/Chloe/Cyril (heretofore known as C3 and "she", which may or may not be wishful thinking) home on Saturday. I had mixed emotions (not about buying her, but about taking her away from EVERYONE she knows) as the poor peanut has never been out of the shop, having been hatched, hand fed, weaned and raised there, and I was terribly concerned about the heat and stress involved in moving from an air-conditioned shop to our broiling hot house. Fortunately, we were home almost all weekend, so we could closely observe C3's behavior in minute and obsessive compulsive detail. We picked her up at about 11, did our food tutorial (the shop has its own bean mix that Fritz went nuts over; his little beak was covered in grain and he snarfed it for a solid hour before we took it away), read our paperwork, bought more stuff for the cage (suckers) and let the staff say goodbye. That was tough as they really love her, and have cared for her since she was an egg. The poor girl who was helping us was quite sad, but it does mean the pooper was loved, which makes me happy.
We packed C3 up into the carrier we had purchased the week before, a fun acrylic cage that will make for excellent transportation for outings, and strapped her in the car. I sat with her in the back seat to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't flap herself into a tizzy. It was a bit traumatic, the drive home:
The noise, the sun, the movement...she thought that the bottom of the carrier would be a little safer, but she just slid and slipped like a little kid on ice skates for the first time.
Once we got home, she was very anxious to get into her cage, and didn't seem to have any problems with the size or amount of toys, as many of the books say new birds can:
She saw the cage, spread her wings and leeeeeaned in, grabbed the rope perch with her beak and hauled herself up:
She seemed to approve of her surroundings, especially the opening top, from where she could eat:
and adventure over the entire double cage, sometimes dangling precariously from the side in an effort to scrutinize every square inch, just to make sure that nothing was going to jump out or trap a toe. She was very thorough in her examination. Her grip is not the best, and she would periodically slide down the bars and have to grab with her beak to hang on, but I had to restrain myself from rushing over and picking her up and setting her back on top of her perch. One has to let ones children discover their surroundings, as long as the surroundings are safe. We've given her perches of various sizes as her feet need to be strengthened, due to the missing toe, but she's fairly dexterous already.
The first night was trying. She was frightened and had night tremors. I heard her flap desperately and fall from her perch at about 2 am, so I went and sat with her for a while, talking to her softly and scratching her head. She did eventually relax enough to sleep, but didn't seem terribly at ease. We covered her cage to keep headlights from coming in the window and waking her, but the street noise may have been too much. It was so hot, though, that we had to either keep the windows open or perish. She was very chatty on Sunday, but wasn't as willing to step up. She wasn't handled all that much in the shop as this species is not as needy as, say, a cockatoo, and there were so many birds that needed more attention sharing the space with her. She seemed to enjoy watching us from her perch and let us feed her and scratch her, which was a hoot, as it's amazing to me how far a bird is willing to contort itself to get us to scratch that ONE SPOT. She didn't eat as much as I would have hoped and she didn't find her food and water bowls, so we had to hang two more by her top perch to make sure she was eating and drinking.
She will go to the vet on Wednesday to have her well bird checkup, get her baseline bloodwork drawn and get microchipped.
I'm having a hard time with this situation. I'm so terribly worried about her health and well-being, and I'm so concerned that she's OK today while we're at work, and she didn't want to step up this morning, and it's so hot in the house, and the housekeeper is coming today (although bless Christian for reminding her of what not to use for cleaning) and I won't be home for hours and what if something happens, and what if she doesn't eat, and what if she hates me, and what if she's sick and we don't know it, and and andanandnadnadnandnandn.....
I'm very concerned. I sure do like her, though. She just breaks my heart.
We packed C3 up into the carrier we had purchased the week before, a fun acrylic cage that will make for excellent transportation for outings, and strapped her in the car. I sat with her in the back seat to keep an eye on her and make sure she didn't flap herself into a tizzy. It was a bit traumatic, the drive home:
The noise, the sun, the movement...she thought that the bottom of the carrier would be a little safer, but she just slid and slipped like a little kid on ice skates for the first time.
Once we got home, she was very anxious to get into her cage, and didn't seem to have any problems with the size or amount of toys, as many of the books say new birds can:
She saw the cage, spread her wings and leeeeeaned in, grabbed the rope perch with her beak and hauled herself up:
She seemed to approve of her surroundings, especially the opening top, from where she could eat:
and adventure over the entire double cage, sometimes dangling precariously from the side in an effort to scrutinize every square inch, just to make sure that nothing was going to jump out or trap a toe. She was very thorough in her examination. Her grip is not the best, and she would periodically slide down the bars and have to grab with her beak to hang on, but I had to restrain myself from rushing over and picking her up and setting her back on top of her perch. One has to let ones children discover their surroundings, as long as the surroundings are safe. We've given her perches of various sizes as her feet need to be strengthened, due to the missing toe, but she's fairly dexterous already.
The first night was trying. She was frightened and had night tremors. I heard her flap desperately and fall from her perch at about 2 am, so I went and sat with her for a while, talking to her softly and scratching her head. She did eventually relax enough to sleep, but didn't seem terribly at ease. We covered her cage to keep headlights from coming in the window and waking her, but the street noise may have been too much. It was so hot, though, that we had to either keep the windows open or perish. She was very chatty on Sunday, but wasn't as willing to step up. She wasn't handled all that much in the shop as this species is not as needy as, say, a cockatoo, and there were so many birds that needed more attention sharing the space with her. She seemed to enjoy watching us from her perch and let us feed her and scratch her, which was a hoot, as it's amazing to me how far a bird is willing to contort itself to get us to scratch that ONE SPOT. She didn't eat as much as I would have hoped and she didn't find her food and water bowls, so we had to hang two more by her top perch to make sure she was eating and drinking.
She will go to the vet on Wednesday to have her well bird checkup, get her baseline bloodwork drawn and get microchipped.
I'm having a hard time with this situation. I'm so terribly worried about her health and well-being, and I'm so concerned that she's OK today while we're at work, and she didn't want to step up this morning, and it's so hot in the house, and the housekeeper is coming today (although bless Christian for reminding her of what not to use for cleaning) and I won't be home for hours and what if something happens, and what if she doesn't eat, and what if she hates me, and what if she's sick and we don't know it, and and andanandnadnadnandnandn.....
I'm very concerned. I sure do like her, though. She just breaks my heart.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Like a banana. Or a grape. Or the protective sticker that comes on electronics. I love that thing.
I'm peely. The terrible sunburn I got at Christian's track meet ten days ago has borne glorious, dehydrated, parchment-like fruit. I have spent the last hour scraping up the rough edges of unpeeled skin with my fingernail and then stripping off big sheets that look white until you ball them up, and then you can see the concentrated cell death in a lovely shade of beige.
I am, however, being very courteous and putting the peelings on a napkin to dispose of hygenically in the trash. I don't want our sweet little custodian to have to vacuum up the remnants of my poor judgment.
I am, however, being very courteous and putting the peelings on a napkin to dispose of hygenically in the trash. I don't want our sweet little custodian to have to vacuum up the remnants of my poor judgment.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Don't judge us too harshly. We have no willpower.
Christian has wanted a big bird for a while. He likes the weight and substance of larger parrots and really yearned for a talking bird. I had been doing some research on bird species and characteristics, and came across the Pionus, a South American parrot not commonly sold in the US, but gaining popularity with breeders. They are sweet and shy and possessed of a quiet demeanor and will turn their backs on disliked personages rather than biting them, which is hilarious. I did some research and presented my findings to Christian, who agreed with me that this species had promise. There are two breeders of Maximilian Pionuses and Blue Headed Pionuses in Spokane, but only one store, Denise's Parrot Place on Mercer Island, fortunately, had any in house; one was a year old Bronze Winged, and two were just fledged baby Blue Headeds. We decided to go check them out on Saturday (Christian driving due to gimpy footedness on my part, and I think that standing in that shop contributed to the progress of infection) and met Charlie:
Charlie, whose name will shortly be changed to either Cyril or Chloe, absolutely slaughtered us. I have a weird and tragic fondness for special needs birds, and had a grand passion for a Cockatoo named Lola on Petfinder who was missing a foot. She was adopted before I could get my hands on her, though. I saw that Charlie/Chloe/Cyril was missing a toe, and when I commented on it, the woman helping us rushed to assure us that it was a nest box injury and that he didn't suffer from it or have any difficulty. I don't know why she thought we'd care, unless other people had rejected him based on the missing toe, but it made me love him all the more. He does eat with the three toed foot as the other is more stable for standing on, and I think his beak has grown more than it should because he only chews on one side, but that is very easily remedied by a trip to the vet. I have never seen a bird this sweet or shy, and he quivered in terror for the first hour we held him. This species is very sensitive and can make wheezing sounds when nervous or excited. Good God, could he be more perfect? And, he talks. Already, without any teaching, he says "Step up!" That was the clincher for Christian. We held him and talked to him and fed him and petted him for over an hour, and did all the paperwork to buy him. The store has a strict no same day purchase policy for animals, which I think is fantastic as it eliminates many unwanted pets, so we can't have him until this weekend, but we get to visit him several times this week. I can't wait to see this sweet little face again:
I really think it was fate or God or the universe telling us to buy this bird. He was passed over for a while as he isn't perfect, and the shop workers, who love him very much, were thrilled that he took to us so well. And then, I was flipping through channels yesterday morning, and I turned to the network channels to see if anything other than golf was on, and a pet keeping show caught my eye. I flipped to the description in the guide, and the first word was "Pionus." I screamed for Christian and pointed at the TV, surprised and kind of weirded out. I mean, these are not common pets, and here was a show touting them for how wonderful of birds they are. Sweet, funny, energetic and good natured were the descriptors the show host used. It felt like the universe was vindicating our purchase. So, Saturday sees the newest addition of chickens to the household. And then I swear we'll be done.
Charlie, whose name will shortly be changed to either Cyril or Chloe, absolutely slaughtered us. I have a weird and tragic fondness for special needs birds, and had a grand passion for a Cockatoo named Lola on Petfinder who was missing a foot. She was adopted before I could get my hands on her, though. I saw that Charlie/Chloe/Cyril was missing a toe, and when I commented on it, the woman helping us rushed to assure us that it was a nest box injury and that he didn't suffer from it or have any difficulty. I don't know why she thought we'd care, unless other people had rejected him based on the missing toe, but it made me love him all the more. He does eat with the three toed foot as the other is more stable for standing on, and I think his beak has grown more than it should because he only chews on one side, but that is very easily remedied by a trip to the vet. I have never seen a bird this sweet or shy, and he quivered in terror for the first hour we held him. This species is very sensitive and can make wheezing sounds when nervous or excited. Good God, could he be more perfect? And, he talks. Already, without any teaching, he says "Step up!" That was the clincher for Christian. We held him and talked to him and fed him and petted him for over an hour, and did all the paperwork to buy him. The store has a strict no same day purchase policy for animals, which I think is fantastic as it eliminates many unwanted pets, so we can't have him until this weekend, but we get to visit him several times this week. I can't wait to see this sweet little face again:
I really think it was fate or God or the universe telling us to buy this bird. He was passed over for a while as he isn't perfect, and the shop workers, who love him very much, were thrilled that he took to us so well. And then, I was flipping through channels yesterday morning, and I turned to the network channels to see if anything other than golf was on, and a pet keeping show caught my eye. I flipped to the description in the guide, and the first word was "Pionus." I screamed for Christian and pointed at the TV, surprised and kind of weirded out. I mean, these are not common pets, and here was a show touting them for how wonderful of birds they are. Sweet, funny, energetic and good natured were the descriptors the show host used. It felt like the universe was vindicating our purchase. So, Saturday sees the newest addition of chickens to the household. And then I swear we'll be done.
I thought Saturday night was date night?
If so, I'm a lousy date.
I should have listened to Dana when she told me, at drinks after rehearsal, to not scratch my mosquito bites, as they could get infected. Ha, I scoffed, such things never happen to me! The next night, I was thinking, huh, these bites really itch still, and boy, it hurts to scratch them. Oh well! Scratch, scratch, scratch. By Thursday night, I couldn't walk, and my ankle was one big blob of red and hot. Strange, I thought to myself, must be an allergic reaction. So, I took an antihistamine and some ibuprofen. Well, the next day, the pain was worse, and one of the doctors I work with, with whom I have a rapport and felt comfortable mentioning my predicament to, made me prop up my leg and, as she poked at my ankle and I sucked in air through my teeth in pain, told me to go straight to the ER. I needed antibiotics, she said. So, off I went like the obedient worker bee, and was diagnosed straight away with cellulitis. Doesn't sound so bad, I thought, as I hobbled back to the office to tell my bosses that I had to go home, per the doctor's orders. By the time I managed to get home after having to get the drugs, my ankle was so swollen and painful that, if I sat down and then stood up again, the pain was so intense it made gasp and tear up. I took some ibuprofen and the antibiotics, and thought I was better. After propping up my foot all night and the next morning, the swelling was better and the pain had decreased. Christian had a party on Saturday night, so he went without me, per my instructions. I was lying on the couch watching TV, and I suddenly got very, very cold. My hands and feet were icy. I covered myself up and thought, huh, funny. It's 80 degrees out. So, a few minutes went by and I got colder and colder, and my cheeks got hotter and hotter. I was in fever denial, as I was told that, if I had a fever, I had to go back to the hospital and by all things Godly, I did NOT want to do that. Now, my temp almost always runs about 97.6-97.9, but very rarely over 98.1. Why? No clue. So, when I saw 99, 99.2, 99.5 and up up up on the thermometer, I got a little worried. I pulled the blanket off my feet and looked down, and I saw this:
Now, I'm chubby, but I have little hands and feet where you can actually see the bones. Do you see any bones? No. Just bulgy red skin and unpainted toenails. Of all the times to lapse on pedicures. I called poor Christian in the tiniest of panics and he came home to take me to the ER. So, with the fever and the nasty club foot (the smaller circle is marking the inflammation on Friday and the line on top is marking the inflammation on Saturday) it was decided to keep me there long enough to give me IV antibiotics, and sneak in a tetanus booster while I was waiting. Shifty bastards.
I spent five hours in the ER, which isn't bad, all things considered. Usually, ER visits take 8-9 hours and one has to sit in the waiting room with gunshot victims and hookers. The Northwest Hosptial staff was fantastic, and everyone had a good sense of humor, although I'm sure things would have been different had they been busier. My video iPod was the hit of the evening. Apparently, though, I cursed them by commenting on the quietness of the evening, or so I was informed by the ER tech who came to unplug my pump so I could go to the bathroom. In hindsight, a large raspberry iced tea was not the best idea. Here is my arm shortly before the infusion began:
The nurse thought I was pretty gruesome for taking pictures, but I must blog.
But, the wallop did a good job, and the inflammation is mostly gone. I have an ankle bone again! I'm sure everything at work will be dire when I go back tomorrow, but I can always summon some tears and clutch my ankle and say I have to go home.
I should have listened to Dana when she told me, at drinks after rehearsal, to not scratch my mosquito bites, as they could get infected. Ha, I scoffed, such things never happen to me! The next night, I was thinking, huh, these bites really itch still, and boy, it hurts to scratch them. Oh well! Scratch, scratch, scratch. By Thursday night, I couldn't walk, and my ankle was one big blob of red and hot. Strange, I thought to myself, must be an allergic reaction. So, I took an antihistamine and some ibuprofen. Well, the next day, the pain was worse, and one of the doctors I work with, with whom I have a rapport and felt comfortable mentioning my predicament to, made me prop up my leg and, as she poked at my ankle and I sucked in air through my teeth in pain, told me to go straight to the ER. I needed antibiotics, she said. So, off I went like the obedient worker bee, and was diagnosed straight away with cellulitis. Doesn't sound so bad, I thought, as I hobbled back to the office to tell my bosses that I had to go home, per the doctor's orders. By the time I managed to get home after having to get the drugs, my ankle was so swollen and painful that, if I sat down and then stood up again, the pain was so intense it made gasp and tear up. I took some ibuprofen and the antibiotics, and thought I was better. After propping up my foot all night and the next morning, the swelling was better and the pain had decreased. Christian had a party on Saturday night, so he went without me, per my instructions. I was lying on the couch watching TV, and I suddenly got very, very cold. My hands and feet were icy. I covered myself up and thought, huh, funny. It's 80 degrees out. So, a few minutes went by and I got colder and colder, and my cheeks got hotter and hotter. I was in fever denial, as I was told that, if I had a fever, I had to go back to the hospital and by all things Godly, I did NOT want to do that. Now, my temp almost always runs about 97.6-97.9, but very rarely over 98.1. Why? No clue. So, when I saw 99, 99.2, 99.5 and up up up on the thermometer, I got a little worried. I pulled the blanket off my feet and looked down, and I saw this:
Now, I'm chubby, but I have little hands and feet where you can actually see the bones. Do you see any bones? No. Just bulgy red skin and unpainted toenails. Of all the times to lapse on pedicures. I called poor Christian in the tiniest of panics and he came home to take me to the ER. So, with the fever and the nasty club foot (the smaller circle is marking the inflammation on Friday and the line on top is marking the inflammation on Saturday) it was decided to keep me there long enough to give me IV antibiotics, and sneak in a tetanus booster while I was waiting. Shifty bastards.I spent five hours in the ER, which isn't bad, all things considered. Usually, ER visits take 8-9 hours and one has to sit in the waiting room with gunshot victims and hookers. The Northwest Hosptial staff was fantastic, and everyone had a good sense of humor, although I'm sure things would have been different had they been busier. My video iPod was the hit of the evening. Apparently, though, I cursed them by commenting on the quietness of the evening, or so I was informed by the ER tech who came to unplug my pump so I could go to the bathroom. In hindsight, a large raspberry iced tea was not the best idea. Here is my arm shortly before the infusion began:
The nurse thought I was pretty gruesome for taking pictures, but I must blog.But, the wallop did a good job, and the inflammation is mostly gone. I have an ankle bone again! I'm sure everything at work will be dire when I go back tomorrow, but I can always summon some tears and clutch my ankle and say I have to go home.
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Measure twice, buy once.
It is official. We've gone to the scary place that only the mentally unhinged and bird breeders usually inhabit. We have joined the legions of those who have homes stuffed with animal habitats on every available surface, with furniture incidentally squished between bird cages and rickety incubators on top of old TVs. These poor souls usually have floors covered in seed and bird poop, dining room tables and kitchen counters covered in bags of Birdie Bread mix and carpets covered by easily washable towels. It's only a matter of time before we never leave the house because we're afraid to abandon the pets.
Witness the madness:
Our two itty bitty birds are in the upper right hand corner. Each side is meant to hold one bird. We could fit both birds and all of our other pets in one side and still have room for a cockatoo on the other.
Do you see how tiny they are in comparison to the cage? What the hell was I thinking? It takes up the entire space of a chair. It's not like we had room to spare in the livingroom, as it's a wee little parlor, but I honestly didn't measure the space correctly.
Hopefully once I have Mom sew a pretty little skirt for the cage, it won't look so very, very white and dominant. I hope.
Witness the madness:
Our two itty bitty birds are in the upper right hand corner. Each side is meant to hold one bird. We could fit both birds and all of our other pets in one side and still have room for a cockatoo on the other.
Do you see how tiny they are in comparison to the cage? What the hell was I thinking? It takes up the entire space of a chair. It's not like we had room to spare in the livingroom, as it's a wee little parlor, but I honestly didn't measure the space correctly.
Hopefully once I have Mom sew a pretty little skirt for the cage, it won't look so very, very white and dominant. I hope.
Monday, July 10, 2006
A glimpse into the future.
Saturday was an eventful day.
Christian is now part of the "Masters" track and field circuit, meaning over 30. Christian did well in the shot put, but the real event was the over 50 age group, which included the 90-99 age group. Yes, the 90-99 age group, of which there was one participant, a sprightly and adorable spindly little man named Leon who is a youthful 92. He joked about having to use the tiny 3K shot and thankfully got to do standing throws, as I can only imagine what a spin or a glide would do to those hips. He had mean form and never fouled. He's actually the national record holder in the his group so we were in the presence of fame and glory. Apparently, there's an over 100 age group as well. I would so dearly love to see that competition. It's my fondest hope that someday Christian will be in that category, carrying his little 3k shots in a plastic bag that used to hold oranges, like the bag one of the gentlemen in the 80-89 age group had with him. It's my fondest wish.
There was almost too much of the sweetie pooperness on Saturday. The camera pooped out at the reptile show, so I only have a few meager and not very exciting pictures from the event, but here is one:
Very young children and pregnant women (ahem, preggers in the picture) aren't supposed to touch reptiles because of the trace amounts of salmonella, so poor Kyan had to reach and point and make lots of "OOOO" noises and faces and struggle vainly to get out of his stroller to pet the pretty snake that could eat him and still be hungry for the next kid. We're training him well.
Jayden wasn't so sure about most of the reptile exhibit, but the petting area was a hit, and even though he's three years too young to touch legally (even though he's handled our snakes repeatedly, but we tried to respect the rules, mostly) he managed to get in a few good strokes. He seemed far more excited about the Purell handwash than the animals, however, so I think he's safe from invasive bacteria.
Christian is now part of the "Masters" track and field circuit, meaning over 30. Christian did well in the shot put, but the real event was the over 50 age group, which included the 90-99 age group. Yes, the 90-99 age group, of which there was one participant, a sprightly and adorable spindly little man named Leon who is a youthful 92. He joked about having to use the tiny 3K shot and thankfully got to do standing throws, as I can only imagine what a spin or a glide would do to those hips. He had mean form and never fouled. He's actually the national record holder in the his group so we were in the presence of fame and glory. Apparently, there's an over 100 age group as well. I would so dearly love to see that competition. It's my fondest hope that someday Christian will be in that category, carrying his little 3k shots in a plastic bag that used to hold oranges, like the bag one of the gentlemen in the 80-89 age group had with him. It's my fondest wish.
There was almost too much of the sweetie pooperness on Saturday. The camera pooped out at the reptile show, so I only have a few meager and not very exciting pictures from the event, but here is one:
Very young children and pregnant women (ahem, preggers in the picture) aren't supposed to touch reptiles because of the trace amounts of salmonella, so poor Kyan had to reach and point and make lots of "OOOO" noises and faces and struggle vainly to get out of his stroller to pet the pretty snake that could eat him and still be hungry for the next kid. We're training him well.Jayden wasn't so sure about most of the reptile exhibit, but the petting area was a hit, and even though he's three years too young to touch legally (even though he's handled our snakes repeatedly, but we tried to respect the rules, mostly) he managed to get in a few good strokes. He seemed far more excited about the Purell handwash than the animals, however, so I think he's safe from invasive bacteria.
Joining the club
We, like every other American and some Europeans, who are ahead of us in most things but behind us on this, became victims of credit card fraud. I was rudely awakened at the ungodly hour of 10 am on Saturday with an automated phone call from Bank of America saying that there was a fraud alert on Christian's credit card, and could I please enter in the last four digits of his SSN? No, I thought, I don't know them. I got up, ran upstairs (Christian was at a meet and unable to provide the necessary information), got his SS card and called the bank back. I, of course, am not authorized on his (paid off) account, so I had to call him at the meet, interrupting his discus throwing, to tell him to call the bank, which he could only do 20 yards away from the ring where the event was taking place. He called, got a little information and his phone dropped the call. Gack. I was in a bit of turmoil as identity theft ranks right up with spiders in my bed on the fear meter.
By the time the event was over and he had time to go home to take a shower before we took the boys to the reptile show, it was 1 pm and I was frantic. What if it was money that couldn't be returned? We just paid everything off, and I didn't want to be responsible for a weekend of orgies and bathroom furnishings. He called BoA from home and was told that someone got ahold of our account number and charged $4500 at Bed, Bath and Beyond and some posh hotel. Fortunately, as the account had a whopping $15 balance, they noticed a slight increase in spending patterns and declined the charges, barring the first one that triggered the alert. They reversed the charges and closed the account. And then, they ruined it all by reissuing a new credit card. We didn't WANT them to issue a new credit card, and Christian tried to tell them that. We want all but ONE credit card to be cancelled (per customer request) and use only a Disney card to get points and then pay it off at the end of the month. One more credit card means one more letter we have to write to the BoA asking to cancel the account and one more headache of trying to maintain our credit score while eliminating all superfluous sources of credit. This is why we left BoA to go to WaMu. We don't like BoA's slap-happy approach to issuing cards, and they have awful fraud protection. Oh, they're fairly helpful when the fraud has happened, but they don't do enough to STOP it from happening. I only hope WaMu won't start flinging credit cards at us. I shall be forced to fling back and I'm terrified of confrontation.
By the time the event was over and he had time to go home to take a shower before we took the boys to the reptile show, it was 1 pm and I was frantic. What if it was money that couldn't be returned? We just paid everything off, and I didn't want to be responsible for a weekend of orgies and bathroom furnishings. He called BoA from home and was told that someone got ahold of our account number and charged $4500 at Bed, Bath and Beyond and some posh hotel. Fortunately, as the account had a whopping $15 balance, they noticed a slight increase in spending patterns and declined the charges, barring the first one that triggered the alert. They reversed the charges and closed the account. And then, they ruined it all by reissuing a new credit card. We didn't WANT them to issue a new credit card, and Christian tried to tell them that. We want all but ONE credit card to be cancelled (per customer request) and use only a Disney card to get points and then pay it off at the end of the month. One more credit card means one more letter we have to write to the BoA asking to cancel the account and one more headache of trying to maintain our credit score while eliminating all superfluous sources of credit. This is why we left BoA to go to WaMu. We don't like BoA's slap-happy approach to issuing cards, and they have awful fraud protection. Oh, they're fairly helpful when the fraud has happened, but they don't do enough to STOP it from happening. I only hope WaMu won't start flinging credit cards at us. I shall be forced to fling back and I'm terrified of confrontation.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
So this guy walks onto an elevator...
I could have an entire blog dedicated to conversations overheard in elevators. This one, though, was actually said to me. A teeny, tiny little elderly woman with a perfect white bob and little shiny sweatpants got on the elevator I was riding in the Medical Center. She was with a person I assume to be her daughter and was at the MC for an appointment, according to their conversation. She looked at her daughter, who seemed unhappy, sighed, glanced around at all of us, caught my eye, and, with a huge smile, said, "What is it they say? You're born, you live, you die. Life's a bitch." She was awesome.
Support your local herp
We shall post pictures upon our return. Information here. Come get over your fears! Then you can feed our pets when we go on vacation.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Feather therapy
The best part of the long weekend was getting to spend quality time with the birdies. I really wish I could teach them to play with balls and string and bits of toys, but they seem to only want to eat, sleep and preen. We took them outside quite a bit as the weather was beautiful, and they enjoyed running about on the lawn:
They seemed to especially enjoy the sunshine and the accompanying sleepiness:
When we were weeding yesterday, we brought them out in the smaller, portable cage, and they spent a good two hours in a grooming orgy, with fluff flying and keratin flaking. Playing on the iPod at the time was the Tiki Room soundtrack, and the birds were deeply confused as to where all the fascinating bird sounds were coming from, and cheeped along merrily with the Tiki Chant. When I finally had to separate them so we could leave the house and go to barbecue #2, we could hear the cries of dismay as we drove away. I think they were convinced that we've come to our senses and finally put them in the same cage permanently. If we wanted to come back to a bald Pierre, then we could. However, as we bought him for his pretty blueness, we'd have no use for him bald and would have to send him back.
They seemed to especially enjoy the sunshine and the accompanying sleepiness:
When we were weeding yesterday, we brought them out in the smaller, portable cage, and they spent a good two hours in a grooming orgy, with fluff flying and keratin flaking. Playing on the iPod at the time was the Tiki Room soundtrack, and the birds were deeply confused as to where all the fascinating bird sounds were coming from, and cheeped along merrily with the Tiki Chant. When I finally had to separate them so we could leave the house and go to barbecue #2, we could hear the cries of dismay as we drove away. I think they were convinced that we've come to our senses and finally put them in the same cage permanently. If we wanted to come back to a bald Pierre, then we could. However, as we bought him for his pretty blueness, we'd have no use for him bald and would have to send him back.
Sanity, recovered.
I just returned from a luxurious four day weekend in which I performed twice and slept approximately as much as a traquilized narcoleptic. Get up? Why? I had no plans that couldn't be cancelled. The only problem with going back to sleep after waking up once is that I tend to have either nightmares or really intense sex dreams. Why? Couldn't tell ya. In between sweaty, heavy sleepiness, we weeded, cleaned, walked around the neighborhood, visited the Japanese Gardens with Tara and Lee, ate much grilled cow, lit things on fire (emits showers of sparks!), watched Will and Grace reruns, played with the birds and only took showers prior to leaving the house. The laptop heaved a last sigh and generated a kernel panic, so I couldn't even play Bookworm. Oh, and I got an excrutiating and marvelous massage in my livingroom. It was a good pain, never mind the screaming.
As most family outings begin by our smacking our heads for not remembering to bring the camera, Christian stapled it to his hand this weekend as we knew there would be many fabulous chances to take pictures of me screaming, "Don't take a picture of me!" At the Japanese Gardens, we got to combine two of my favorite things: herpetology and the elderly. We each purchased a bag of koi food that is much beloved by the resident red eared sliders in the pond as well, so we got to feed all the wildlife. Every time a turtle would open its mouth to eat, one of the four of us would make a sound that a turtle would make if eating in an animated film. Yes, we're five, and yes, we like cartoons. We're just providing the soundtrack.
The tour guide was an adorable and quite aged little woman who could not have been less than 85. She walked us around at a leisurely pace and I wanted to carry her at certain points as she was a little tottery. The best I could do was offer an arm.
Christian and I also took a long walk around the neighborhood yesterday as my legs were going to leap from my body in protest if I didn't get some exercise, so we took the opportunity to photograph our favorite house:
It's hard to tell, but the entire house is edged in brick and faced in some kind of river rock. It's enormous, extending back about twice as deep as our house, and has a matching little garden shed. The only house for which I'd sell mine.
And then there was an unidentified klassy neighbor, although I do agree with the sentiment:
Enlarge the picture. Yep, that's our neighborhood.
As most family outings begin by our smacking our heads for not remembering to bring the camera, Christian stapled it to his hand this weekend as we knew there would be many fabulous chances to take pictures of me screaming, "Don't take a picture of me!" At the Japanese Gardens, we got to combine two of my favorite things: herpetology and the elderly. We each purchased a bag of koi food that is much beloved by the resident red eared sliders in the pond as well, so we got to feed all the wildlife. Every time a turtle would open its mouth to eat, one of the four of us would make a sound that a turtle would make if eating in an animated film. Yes, we're five, and yes, we like cartoons. We're just providing the soundtrack.
The tour guide was an adorable and quite aged little woman who could not have been less than 85. She walked us around at a leisurely pace and I wanted to carry her at certain points as she was a little tottery. The best I could do was offer an arm.
Christian and I also took a long walk around the neighborhood yesterday as my legs were going to leap from my body in protest if I didn't get some exercise, so we took the opportunity to photograph our favorite house:
It's hard to tell, but the entire house is edged in brick and faced in some kind of river rock. It's enormous, extending back about twice as deep as our house, and has a matching little garden shed. The only house for which I'd sell mine.
And then there was an unidentified klassy neighbor, although I do agree with the sentiment:
Enlarge the picture. Yep, that's our neighborhood.
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