19 January 1999: Buddy Boy

We have a gross bit then a boring bit then a quite amusing bit, if you want to skip straight to that.

I nearly killed my little buddy last night.

With the windburn in my throat from yesterday morning's sprint, I didn't want to breathe as hard as I do on the Nordic Track. So I decided I'd do my step tape, but RDC was going in and out from the deck and had the shades open and while I have decided to Deal about possibly being Spotted on the track, I do not wish to be Spotted while Stepping. So I hung out and ate a muffin for a bit, just like Algernon.

Since breakfast is Blake's favorite meal, I thought nothing of ripping off a corner and giving it to him, even though it wasn't breakfast time. It was nearly 5:00 and time for his buddy chow, so he was hungry: he ate the whole thing. More than half an hour later I sitting at the desk, Blake on my hand after a headpetting so good he got the yawns, talking on the phone with RRP talking about her dress and reception site when I finally noticed--bad mommy!--that Blake was vomiting.

RRP: "And the dress is so romantic, it has roses--"
lisa: "RDC, Blake is puking!"

I nearly hung up on RRP and set Blake on the counter. He regurgitated, a quite natural thing for birds feeding their young, except he has none, and shook his head. Viscous fluid rained on the counter, on him, my hand, and we watched him. It was after 5:30 and his vet would be gone. What to do?

The emergency veterinary hospital we resorted to last time featured a vet who took offense at our asking how many times he had performed subcutaneous injections on parrots. If a physician for humans is as dismissive when you ask how much practice she has for a procedure, find a different doctor. Unfortunately there aren't as many emergency vets as people doctors.

Percy, Blake's older brother, died at a different vet. He aspirated vomit, choked, and died. I think they didn't find him till he was gone, because if they'd noticed him they could have suctioned him out. But he was in their incubator and I had left him there, alone, because the vet said he was seriously ill but probably would be okay and I should go home because I could do nothing. All in all, throwing up is the about the scariest thing a bird can do, in my book.

Blake did stop vomiting pretty quickly, and although he looked pretty poorly during it he perked up pretty quickly afterward. RDC went out to heat up the car and Blake was alert and aware of that to express his dislike for anyone leaving the house. (RDC and I should never leave the house but stay in and pet Buddy's head all our lives.) Then I went out to put Blake's cage in the car, in case we had to leave him there, and RDC said Blake didn't like that either. If he were really distressed, he'd've been all hunkery and unobservant.

So off we went. Blake has been outside in the dark perhaps twice in his life and driving is usually fun but not when it's dark. He clambered all over his cage and finally settled down when traffic thinned and headlights didn't startle him.

By the time we pulled into the vet's parking lot he was talking. Percy had a sweet little noise sounding a lot like "wow!" when he was surprised or interested; it's an utterance not in Blake's vocabulary. Blake expresses curiosity elsewise. He made friends with both vets he saw. Neither was an avian vet but neither feigned an expertise she did not command, in distinct contrast to the vet we saw last time. Blake climbed up their lab coats, preened their hair, nibbled their earrings, and made running leaps for them at the least sign of their vacating his proximity. They were utterly charmed. Of course: he is the sweetest boy and surprises even people who know birds with his affectionate bravado.

Our Little Buddy is just fine. He was still nervous, in this strange place, and tried to fly after RDC when the latter sought the lavatory. But his little body was just fine. Can't a bird vomit every once in a while when he's eaten too much of something that's too rich for him without his parents' panicking? Apparently not, especially when his mother knows perfectly well that foods as high in fat and sugar as muffins have no place in his diet. He is okey-dokey (she tells herself again) and in fact is sitting on my knee preening vigorously.

Aren't my bus adventures just the most fascinating thing?

This morning I made it to the bus stop well in time, crossing Something Street as the bus pulled away from the stop before mine, a piece south on Something. As I stepped up to the north side of State Avenue, I gave my customary glance busward, just in time to see it barrel northward through the intersection and entirely fail to turn west onto State Avenue where we were all waiting. I closed the distance to the stop, watching the other regulars stare after our recalcitrant bus. "I'm sure there's a funny side to this, if we could only figure out what it is," I offered, but no one smiled. And not everyone at the stop was a regular: some hadn't notice the bus blow us off. I don't understand how anyone can be so unobservant.

We watched our bus pause at a light, to turn northwest onto the major road heading for downtown. As it paused, the State Avenue bus arrived, turning south at that intersection and heading for State Avenue again, where I waited. I could take this bus and transfer to another bus and get downtown only a little late, and that's what I did. I was the only person at my stop to do so, the rest waiting in hopes our regular bus would turn around somewhere and come back. As if. Our route is a commuter one and the next scheduled bus wasn't due for 80 minutes and the State Avenue bus runs every 30. I reprimanded myself for thinking the other people were passive herd members and for patting myself on the back for being proactive.

Even needing to transfer I reached the downtown station a minute or two earlier than usual, which made me wonder if I should change which buses I use. I decided that running the risk of missing a transfer isn't worth the few minutes I save. I lodged a report, and as I wrote it out I waited for my regular bus to arrive. It did not, so maybe its few minutes' tardiness were due to its turning its reticulated self around to return to its regular route. But I doubt it.

Tomorrow morning I'll do the Dread Going Backward and board the bus at the stop before my regular one, before the driver needs to make or ignore the left turn.

Going Backward is Wrong. If you have to go back to your house because you forgot something, that's Going Backward. If you have to do errands in three places that cannot be driven in an exact equilateral triangle, you must draft a geometric proof to prevent any Going Backward. For me to walk a distance to a bus stop and then ride the bus back over that stretch is Going Backward. But until this driver is broken in, I shall have to Go Back. Who am I, Diane Court?

Oh and I am so very amused. I'm wearing my new "eggplant" suit and the hat CLH gave me a thousand years ago. The hat, which complements the suit perfectly, really makes the outfit but the hair and contacts do help. After all, I wouldn't wear the hat if I had to wear spectacles. Anyway, I scurried out for an abbreviated lunch. During the morning I had pinned my chignon too high to wear the hat, so I took out the pins and (accidentally) the elastic of the braid on my way out of the building: by the time I crossed Broadway my hair had loosened into a more obvious luscious glory.

About a half block up, striding along with books for the 'brary, smiling at the sunny sky, cheerful as all git out despite having forgotten my sunglasses, I heard a voice behind me: "I like your hairstyle."

It had to be sarcastic, since even my braid was almost unraveled. I put a hand to my hair, embarrassed, and turned to the speaker, smiling ingratiatingly--such a girl thing to feel apologetic about. "I just took it down so my hat would fit. I had it before I grew my hair, because people don't wear enough hats, you know." My mouth does run on, doesn't it?

Now, an hour later, I don't even remember how he replied, but it was friendly and pro'ly complimentary. His first comment had not been sarcastic, after all; my insecurity had merely reflexively assumed that. And so we began to chat as we walked. Possibly only his fourth sentence whether I was getting lunch? so I replied, honestly as is always my first impulse (however much I regret it later), "No, I'm am going to buy some sunglasses and go to the library."

"Getting some exercise?" he asked.

Obviously he'd never been to the library. "No, the library's not that far."

He asked where I work, and I told him; and either I asked--or he volunteered (because I am way too self-centered to ask)--where he works; and he introduced himself so I introduced myself; and finally he asked me straight out if we could have lunch.

Meanwhile we passed the Abe Lincoln-dressing freak carrying a sign advertising an anti-choice rally on Saturday at the capital [sic]. One can't assume that such a person can spell.

Oh! A come-on! I get it! Color me naïve! So I told him straight out, "I am married. Thank you, but I don't think so."

He asked if I ever had lunch with single guys, and I said I might if I knew them better.

"I'm sorry, but I just think you're really attractive and I just wondered--"

I cut him off and said, "Thank you, but I'm not comfortable with that." And I smiled and entered Sunglasses Hut.

Loser.

I don't mean that. He was normal-looking and -speaking and -acting. It's just that it was a little ego jolt for me and the first time in a long time anyone but a vagrant has said a flattering word, so whenver anyone says anything I assume he's a loser. And I consider whistles from society's dregs to be particularly insulting--what am I, their equal that they think they have anything to offer me?

Anyway. I didn't buy any sunglasses. The only pairs I liked were way out of my idea of reasonable prices. I should get a new pair, though; mine are all nicked. So squinting against the noon sun--I feel like such a vampire, my eyes are so sensitive to bright daylight--I headed for the library. Another man and a woman on the street severally complimented the hat. Love the hat.

In the library, I found Maurice Sendak's Alligators All Around, which I have been meaning to find since August. The phrase "alligators all around" came into my head when we were in Vail then. I must have heard some other phrase of three and a half trochees for it to appear, unsummoned, in my head. But I couldn't sing any further than "Bursting Balloons," and it was driving me crazy. Now, five months later, I have no idea what phrase inspired me to sing Sendak. Well, it can't have been very important if in all the times I've been to the library since then this is the first time I've remembered. But I like singing Sendak. By the way, the next line is "Catching Colds." The B line is two perfect trochees but I can't scan that C line at all. "Malachi Mulligan: two dactyls."

On the way back to work another woman said, "Sharp outfit!" which comment I would have enjoyed more if "sharp" were not my mother's fashion adjective.

Back in the lobby, a newbie was lost among the dedicated elevators and I told her which went where; we chatted as we boarded the correct 'vator. My boss's boss got on too, and he said, "I like that hat." Now I was nearly delirious. "You and the rest of Denver," I told him, failing to resist my compulsive conceit. "I can barely thread my way along a sidewalk for all the admiring throngs." So I told him, and the newbie, the tale of my lunch hour, and they were both amused.

The über-boss and I ambled back to our area when L, whose laugh is louder than mine, turned the corner, nearly ran into me, and exclaimed, "Lisa! You look gorgeous! What a great suit!" and at that I just cackled. Life had suddenly become too amusing. Über-boss chortled as I said, "Yes, the populace of downtown Denver is swarming me. Everyone clamors to touch the hem of my raiment because I am so lovely." She burst out laughing. One of the two women whom I confuse with each other came around the corner too, and I said, "and K-- likes the suit too," and she grinned.

I finished off the afternoon with a pleasant tooth-cleaning just so my head wouldn't swell too much. I have no cavities anyway.

By the way, I did eventually realize that the man asked if I was "getting some exercise" because I was walking so fast, not necessarily because he considered the library far away. He'd already asked me where I'm from--doesn't everyone know that in Connecticut, we walk fast*? Furthermore I had only three-quarters of an hour before a meeting, so I was hurrying. But I didn't feel stupid about misunderstanding him. Sometimes what I say when I haven't understood someone's implication sounds kind of brilliant and off the wall and honest and as if I actually could think on my feet, and in this case I hope he decided I was delivering an Insult Implied to someone who thought the library was an exercise-distance away.

*Actually, it's an urban east coast thing. In Connecticut, too many people are fat to set land-speed records.

Lesson of the Day: I need to get more suits similar to this one.

In our staff meeting this morning we went over schedules, as usual. We'd talked earlier about internet sales tax and someone mentioned buying furniture directly from North Carolina on-line to avoid all the price mark-ups and sales taxes. I said I'd just been looking at furniture because we're moving and added a demure "woo hoo!" So during schedules I said I might take the last Friday in February off to move.

"What's this about moving?" asked someone who'd been out last week and thus missed my delighted crowing. "RDC got a job and we're moving, baby. Gonna have two bedrooms, just like grown-ups!" I get sort of unprofessionally enthused at work at the least provocation. Then one of last week's crowing victims said, "Tell him what the job is, it's so interesting." So I guess, crowed at or not, she doesn't consider herself a victim.

I regret that I wasn't more willing to lunch with the fellow. He seemed nice enough, and I like that someone has the guts to make pleasant conversation with a stranger. It is, after all, something I would do myself. And I certainly want more friends in Denver. And as vain as I am enjoying acting (koff koff), it is hypocritical of me to think of how different--how absent--his reaction would have been if my hair had been customarily tightly bound and my face spectacled. But given that he approached me because of my hair and his attraction, how comfortable should I feel about "just friends"? Maybe he'd've accepted that and we could have had lunch and gotten acquainted--if I hadn't had thought my errands more important--but I didn't want to explain that and I wouldn't give him means to contact me without that understood. Maybe I should ask him to lunch if RDC can come. Heh.

Besides, if after four blocks of my sparkling conversation he still wanted to have lunch with me because of his attraction and not because of my winning personality--and his last words concerned my appearance not my mind--forget it.