Weekly Piano Lesson

aarrrgggghhhhh . . . chords!

The Law

Spent over half an hour on hold yesterday trying to speak to an IRS agent, to find out why I haven't received my incentive check. I'm so not looking forward to calling again.

Got a summons today for jury duty. I don't mind jury duty that much; I really do think it's my responsibility as a citizen. Old-fashioned, I know.

And, of course, spent nearly half an hour on the phone with GoDaddy this morning. Perhaps I should just move there.

The Evil Committee began its down-hill slide yesterday; some things got done incorrectly and there was confusion so we left early. I haven't figured out a way to smuggle whiskey into the meeting room, though. Which is probably for the best.

Sugar Franklin was perkier than usual yesterday, running back and forth in her cage until I brought her out where she proceeded to run back and forth on the coffee table and on me.

I love the way parrots (and I guess other pets) just assume possession of a human's body. Charli will move from the back of the couch by hopping onto my shoulder (without asking, of course) and then scoot herself to my chest so that she's in perfect position to be scritched and then to take a nap. Like I was put on earth to meet her needs and wishes, and that I wouldn't dare move lest I inconvenience her. My parrots have claimed my shoulders, my back, my knees, my chest, and my lap, and sometimes my feet -- though my feet are loudly proclaimed by Sugar Franklin to be Evil and in dire need of hissing at.

What I wouldn't give to know what they think.

No Good Deed

I went out for an early supper and when I got home two women were sitting on the porch next door; one looked like a teen-ager, the other in her late twenties. From what I could tell the guy had not yet come home from the hospital nor had the woman with the two babies returned. There were no cars in the drive or in front of the house.

I asked how things were, and the women said their dad was okay. Hmmm, he didn't look old enough to be these women's father, but I'm a terrible judge of age.

The older one asked to use my phone so I said, "No long distance, right" She shook her head and made her call. She talked for about five minutes then gave me back the phone. I checked the number and sure enough -- it was out of our area code. I went across the yard and said she'd have to pay for the call, that I don't have free long distance. She looked astonished and said she'd only called her sister. I repeated that it was long distance. Then she said she only talked for a minute. Like that took care of everything.

sigh . . .

I said I'd bring the bill over when it arrived and would expect to be paid then.

Yeah, right, like I'll ever get a dime out of her.

O, my piano teacher, is also a rental agent for this neighborhood. She happened to mention a few months ago that she'd signed up a nice young quiet woman with a baby to rent the house next to me. I nodded and said they'd all been moving in the weekend before.

"They?"

"Yeah, she's young and he's maybe in this 30s or 40s and some other guy."

"No," she said. "This was a young blond woman with a baby."

"Nope," I responded. "These people are black and I haven't seen a baby." I don't care who lives next door to me as long as they're quiet, don't throw trash in my yard, and aren't making meth or holding sex slavery auctions. In the years I've lived here I can't count the number of folks who've moved in and out of the rental houses on either side of me.

I could tell O was confused by who I said was living there, but I haven't mentioned it to her since, and I don't know what she did about it. Or if she did anything about it. There's also been a woman who faintly seems Asian coming and going who's always got her hair wrapped in a towel as if she'd just gotten out of the shower. And lots of other friends who come and go.

Well, I won't lend my phone to any of them again.

It's been a nice day today. Beautiful weather, though maybe 10 degrees too hot for me. I had the cockatiels out for a couple of hours, watching their busy goings and comings. Then I had Charli out for a couple of hours and scritched her head for most of that time.

Tomorrow starts the work week, then I have to get serious about getting myself ready to go to Vermont week after next. I've already made arrangements for L to bird sit for me, so I've got to get the keys to her soon.

I wish I could stay home from work like my birds and have someone scritch my head.

Update: Someone rang my doorbell twice at 11:30 pm, but I was too tired to get up. And this morning there's yet another out-of-state car in their driveway.

Hey -- I'm the nosey neighbor; it's my job to look as I drive off.

Rental Property

Instead of taking a nap yesterday afternoon I decided to get my hair cut. I informed the birds of my intention and opened the front door.

To find an EMS truck, complete with flashing lights, blocking my driveway. I walked out to the porch just as the paramedics brought out a stretcher from next door, carrying the young man who lives there. Well, I assume he lives there -- he's there a lot but then so are a lot of other people. It's a rental house so I never know.

Anyway, the paramedics loaded him into the truck and climbed in after him. And then nothing. I, based on my vast knowledge of EMS and ER activities based on my extensive reading of medical blogs, knew they were probably getting vitals and starting an IV.

I noticed the storm door had been propped open, so I went over and closed it then went back to my porch. A few minutes later the wife/girlfriend/young woman came hurrying out, carrying two babies in carriers. I didn't realize there was anyone else inside; otherwise I wouldn't have bothered the storm door. She got them settled in just as one of their friends drove up. She called to the friend and they talked for awhile.

And still the EMS truck didn't move. I wasn't in a hurry so it didn't matter to me how long they parked there.

Finally the truck pulled out. I waited until it was well on its way off my street, then started my car and backed out. The friend was getting back into his car, so I rolled down the window and asked if everything was okay. (duh) He said yes, his friend couldn't move his hip and the paramedics wouldn't let him enter the truck to see his friend.

So I guess it's official now -- I'm the nosey neighbor.

Birds and Mother and Saturday

I swear, I wouldn't recommend GoDaddy to my worst enemy. I've transferred my domain names from them to a new provider and GoDaddy won't let go of them. My sites are not showing up because "transfer is denied," because it's "registered," it's "private," I need to log onto this and click that and then log in over here and click that other button. This has been going on all damn week. So if you tried to access my blog and couldn't, it's because GoDaddy wouldn't release the domain name.

The other situation with GoDaddy is so convoluted it would take me months to explain it due to the impossible happening for three friggin' years. I'll have another site set up later. Even the most advanced tech person I know said it was "possible but highly unlikely," which from him means "impossible." sigh . . . .

I've been on the phone almost all morning to powweb.com, trying to get through to tech support and then trying to make myself understood by the folks in India.

Sugar Franklin was declared okay -- Thursday's gram stain only showed one little yeast thing, so she's okay. I put her water bottle back in place, and I suspect she's glad to taste "normal" water again.

My physical therapist is from South Africa, which explains her accent. We talked for a few minutes about apartheid; she said she and her family left in the mid-80s because of apartheid (she's white and didn't want her family living in that kind of environment). She said it's all open now except that there are no jobs any more for whites, and that Indian women get first pick as doctors. I think it's fascinating to talk to someone who lived there during apartheid, but we didn't have time and I don't exactly know her well.

She did some ultrasound on my shoulder then I did some arm rotations on a machine like a bicycle, then she gave me more exercises to do. Because of vacations I won't see her again until mid-August. My shoulder didn't feel good after the session like last week.

My mom came to town today (she lives about 60 miles away) and I took her out to lunch. She makes beautiful, award-winning quilts, and she wanted to go to one of the fabric stores here. She seemed a bit more calm today, thank goodness.

Charli bit me last night. I had her out for over two hours, giving her scritches, letting her nap on my chest, and even letting her chew up safe things on the coffee table. And then the phone rang.

Charli cannot abide the phone or for me to use it. I've learned to either put her down or hold her far away from me when I have to answer the phone, and that's always worked. But last night she bit my hand several times and wouldn't let go. I had to shake her off, which wasn't good for either of us. It was a terrible way to end such a nice time we had had, and I feel awful about it. I got her in her cage and gave her a good lecture then ran ice cold water over my hand to stop the bleeding. I gave her some more scritches later in the evening to show I forgave her; this morning she's fine and back to her normal sweet self.

I think I deserve a nap.

Good News

I took Sugar Franklin in for her follow-up on the yeast thing. I should know soon.

While I was there I asked Dr. Z if she knew about my deceased friend's birds. It turns out that my ex-friend (who took the birds in) did not give one of the birds to the woman who mistreats her birds! And that she wouldn't even consider doing so. I cannot express how relieved I am. It was incomprehensible to me that my ex-friend would do such a thing, but people change and I haven't talked to her in over a year. But the birds are safe!

My friend J called late last night and left a message. His brown-headed parrot had bitten his hand several times and I could tell he needed to talk about behavior issues. The bird is 3 years old and has never bitten him before.

I chatted with him via e-mail today. From what I can make out, the bird was doing the skirt dance and J interrupted her a bit too abruptly. And took her to the cage when she wasn't ready to go. I think. It's impossible to know for sure. Anyway, I told him it's important for the bird to feel it has some control over its environment, that next time ask her to step up and if she refuses, go away and do something else for a few minutes. Then ask again; the odds are good the bird will be more than happy to step up because it will be her choice. And that he must watch her body language at all times -- 99.99 percent of the time a parrot will warn you when it's going to bite.

People who own parrots must be insane. I know I am.

In Anticipation of Rain

The weather people are promising thunderstorms today, and I hope they're right. I could use a big ole' thunderstorm about now -- lots of lightning and thunder and pounding rain that rushes into the street and down the sewers.

The Evil Committee was its usual evil self yesterday. It's what you'd imagine a committee in Hell would be like -- a little conference room with a white screen and no windows, tables in a square formation with little chairs around them. The tables have dried rings on them from countless wet glasses and cups. Pictures of males on the walls along with plaques for excellence in employee satisfaction or housekeeping or softball -- all slightly crooked. Extra chairs and odd broken pieces of equipment piled in the corners, so there's really not much space to move around in. The computer only shows half of the document on the screen, and everyone peers at it and then someone will ask about a particular word, then someone else will chime in about that word and another word. T will write everything down on her copy, L will bring up something that has no relation whatsoever to the subject at hand, A will address L's comment, so that P and M have to express their opinion on the matter. Then C will jangle her bracelets and state her views, causing T to mark out what she'd written and write something else down. The room and meeting are all self-contained, with no escape. I drink my tea or water very, very slowly and wonder why I'm even there and how I'm going to survive another one.

Our summer chorus taper rehearsals have been moved to Mondays instead of Sundays, and the place we normally meet at has broken air conditioning so we're now meeting in a big church basement. Last night's rehearsal went pretty well, all things considered.

Got my Vermont workshop workbook yesterday, and it's about what I expected. Some writers included stuff that's simply incomprehensible to me, others included respectable work. Maybe it's just because I'm older but I strongly believe a poem should be about something recognizable, notwithstanding "language" poems, which I look at as exercises rather than poems. I'm concerned that my instructor is not Bruce Weigl, who I signed up for, but someone named Baron Wormser. Never heard of him (her), and I don't appreciate the switch with no explanation. I wrote Louise to see what was going on, and she said Bruce had health problems and then Jack bailed. I hadn't gotten the e-mail about Bruce, so it was all a surprise to me.

No meetings today, so I can deal with this pile of work without having to leave my office right in the middle of it. I had a lot of phone calls yesterday, so I may just let the system take messages today.

Sugar Franklin has been drinking her special water more and more, without a problem. Seems to me she's a bit perkier, but that could be my imagination. We go back for a gram stain on Thursday.

Charli has taken to sleeping on the other side of her cage, on top of a half-chewed toy. Parrots can sleep in the oddest places in the most contorted postures; clearly they don't have arthritis, or at least they don't have it yet.

On the drive to work this morning, I heard on NPR that McCain's latest commercial blames Obama for the increase in gasoline prices. There is no twisted form of logic or madness available to me that would make that make any sense whatsoever.

Blogs and Politics

At 9 am it's already 90 degrees. I managed to haul myself out of bed early enough to go have breakfast at one of my favorite places before the pre-church crowd wandered in. I was thinking that maybe the art of blogging is just translating the more literate stuff that rolls around in your head -- of course, some blogs are commercial or deliberately political, but I'm talking about the casual blog. Like this. I know I have the most perfect wonderful charming entrancing parrots in the world, but I can see how someone else could get bored hearing about them.

I took all 20 pounds of the Sunday paper to the restaurant with me, of course. And there on the local section's front page are pictures of yet another funeral of yet another poor kid killed in Iraq. What angers me is how the friends and some relatives will stand around and say, with true heartfelt sincerity, that "he died so those people could be free," or "he gave his life to keep us all safe." I can understand how the immediate relatives may be forced to say and believe such things in order to keep their sanity, but no one else believes that stuff. There is no doubt in my mind that Bush stole both elections and that he went into the White House determined to wage war against Iraq.

And meanwhile, Osama bin Laden is still out there. And we're throwing away our citizens over there -- for what?

I am registered independent, and in this state independents can't vote in the primary unless an independent candidate is running. But if I were registered Democrat, I would have voted for Hilary. I just don't think Obama is seasoned enough to handle it.

But I'm voting for him in November, and he can damned well learn. He's a lot wiser than Bush was/is. McCain gets up there and talks just like Bush -- who among us wants another four years of Bush-ism?

sigh . . . don't get me started.

The birds were beside themselves when I got home; calling at the top of their voices and running back and forth. I think Charli is over her hormonal surges -- she's happily been sitting on my knee and climbing to the back of the couch to chew up a fresh roll of adding machine tape -- no interest at all in the coffee table.

The Virtue of Salads

I don't have a thing I have to do until rehearsal tomorrow evening, though there are zillions of things I should do.

I finaly braved the 90-plus heat and went over to Texas Roadhouse for a late lunch. Now I know that some Texas Roadhouses are not excellent, but this one is. I've never had a messed up order or bad dish and the service is always excellent. My only complaint is that it's so crowded after 5 and on weekends. I love their little sirloins, ribs, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, baked beans, fresh baked rolls with honey and cinnamon butter, and salads.

Rather than my usual 6 ounce sirloin I had their veggie plate: mashed potatoes with brown gravy, apple sauce, baked beans, iced tea unsweetened, and a salad.

I love a good basic garden salad, though I don't know why. One of my grandfathers ate nothing but eggs and meat (he died of a stroke; they didn't know the connection back then). My other grandfather was almost as bad and died of heart failure. My dad rarely ate veggies and had a heart attack (he died of Alzheimer's though). My mom will eat a vegetable if I fuss at her long enough. So my love of salads is certainly not genetic.

I've had lots of bad salads and lots of superb salads -- I'm talking garden or side salads here; no Jell-o salads or weird stuff people like to bring to potlucks. The ones I like are about like the one I had today. Cold variety of dark leafy lettuces; a little iceberg is okay as long as it's not the bulk of the salad. A sliver or two of red cabbage, some shredded cheddar cheese, croutons that break easily with a fork, some hard boiled egg (both white and yolk), lots and lots of fresh cut tomatoes, maybe some shredded carrots. Mushrooms and a sprinkle of crisp crumbled bacon are welcome additions, as are thinly sliced cucumbers. No onions. My favorite dressing is lime and honey, but not many restaurants serve that. So I end up with french or sun-dried tomato or thousand island on the side. I also like O'Charley's Black and Blue salad, which comes with cooked sirloin strips and bits of blue cheese and all the other salad things I like. Ditto for the Southern Chicken salad they have: crisp tender bits of chicken breast.

On my way home from lunch there was a bad wreck; maybe three cars. The police hadn't arrived yet. One car was hit front driver's side so badly ain't nobody gonna ever drive that car again. There were maybe eight cars pulled off to the side and maybe 12 people standing around. Beside the totaled car a woman was laying on the hot asphalt, moaning, while a couple of people talked to her. I hate it when people stop and gawk at wrecks, though I myself always slow down just a little bit, even though I think it's rude. If I'm not involved and the police or some kind of help is there, it's none of my business, and the best thing I (anyone) can do is get out of the way.

I stopped at the little convenience store in my neighborhood to get my lottery tickets and one of those huge colas for 69 cents. I love Pepsi in bottles or cans, but for fountain drinks nothing beats a Coke.

I had all the birds out earlier, except Charli. She's awfully hormonal or something these past few days. I bring her out and scritch her little head, then she decides she wants to chew everything on the coffee table. I pick her up, she goes back and hangs upsidedown and climbs down to the shelf of the coffee table and proceeds to chew everything there. I pick her up and she nips me and tries to get to the coffee table again. I give her a couple of her favorite toys to chew on and she's destroyed one of my crossword puzzle books, but no -- it must be the coffee table. Sugar's cage is next to the coffee table, and Charli also likes to climb on top -- which Sugar certainly does not appreciate.

So Charli comes out separately so I can keep dragging her away from the coffee table.

And Nicholas is in full voice today. I swear he hasn't stopped calling and chirping at the top of his lungs all day. I may have to take some aspirin.

Physical Therapy and PEAC

I was planning to sleep late today, but I forgot that Nicholas doesn't approve of people sleeping once the sun comes up. I wanted to get up early so I could out and have breakfast before the crowds and then go downtown to the farmer's market for some fresh veggies -- but I also wanted to sleep late. Either way, both the restaurant and the farmer's market will be swamped at this time of day. Too many people for me. Plus it's going to be murderously hot again today.

The physical therapy session wasn't too bad yesterday. She said it's tendonitis in the shoulder and we spent an hour measuring my range of motion, working on my posture, and going over a bunch of exercises I'm to do at home. Next week we'll be doing something with a machine. My shoulder felt a lot better after the session.

The therapist is an older woman, with thin blond hair cut blunt and held back with two bobby pins. Her accent is either Irish or British, or something non-American. She talks alot, like she's got so much knowledge and enthusiasm she just can't contain herself. I liked her right off.

I got an emergency note from my friend B in California. She created PEAC (Parrot Education and Adoption Center), and funds are running dangerously low these days so she's asking members for donations. For those who don't know, PEAC is a great organization and I'd give anything to have a chapter here. They have a chapter in Alaska, Cleveland, and Pittsburgh. They foster parrots until homes can be found; staff and adoptors and foster people all have to pass classes in how to understand and deal with parrots. And yes, I made a small donation.

Well, I guess I'd better get up from the couch and go do my shoulder exercises -- that is, if Nicholas doesn't mind too much.

My Poetry Manuscript

C and I ran a small literary press back in the early 90s, and he has since gone on to run his own publishing company. So when I ran into him at the Book Fair three years ago, I said, "Well, you've published everybody else we know. When are you going to publish me?"

He told me to send him my manuscript, which I did. And never heard from him again. His company publishes a lot of literature and local interest stuff, and C's made a good name for himself and his press.

I was talking to JBH a month or so ago about sending my manuscript to a Louisville press and I mentioned C. JBH told me to keep after C, even after three years of silence. So I did.

And . . .

I just heard from C; he said he does want to publish my poetry manuscript but that it wouldn't be until late next year. The press is booked (so to speak) that far ahead. (And no, he wouldn't publish me just because we're friends or if he didn't think he could make money from it.)

Yea!!!

Of course, I was planning to send my manuscript to the Louisville press during their submission period but now I'll have to see if C accepts simultaneous submissions.

C said to go ahead and tinker with the poems since poets are always tinkering with their poems (this is true; poems are never finished, they're just abandoned).

Double yea!

My book about brown-headed parrots is still with the publisher; he wrote me a few weeks ago to send him some more pictures for the cover and back, so I asked the folks on the brown-head parrot list to contribute. And did they ever! Three people sent in almost a hundred pictures, which I forwarded on so the publisher can choose.

I wore one of my nice suits to work today, just in case I do have to give a disposition.

Sore Fingers & Dr. D's

I had Charli out for a little over an hour, scritching her little head and letting her sit on my hand and preen, dropping the occasional feather.

Then I let out the cockatiels; Sugar Franklin on my shoulder and the Bobbsey Twins on top of Sugar's cage. They like to eat her food and play with her toys -- even though it's the exact same food and toys they have in their cages.

Yesterday I got my free sample of bird pellets from Dr. D's Avian Pellets. Someone on Tiel Talk was bragging about how much their parrots loved these pellets, so I paid $8.95 shipping for a "free" five-pound sample.

Charli at a few, then ignored them. Sugar ate maybe three and ignored them. The Bobbsey Twins ignored them altogether.

Honestly, I was a bit concerned about the list of ingredients -- for example, it lists "forage product (alfafa)." Why not just say alfalfa? Ground limestone? Parrots don't need grit, so I'm a bit uncertain about limestone, though I'm sure it's a very tiny amount.

Not too bad a day at work. One of the lawyers stopped by this afternoon, and we went over some of the documents. Then, after three or four phone calls, we decided that I probably won't have to give a disposition after all. Yea!

Wandered around and found more blogs last night. Barista Brat (blogger works at StarBucks)' SoCal Cabbie; and The Blog That At Manhattan (physician and cook).

I need to stop following those enticing links!