Three More Days...

All I can say is that this week has got to be the longest of my life. The minutes seem like hours. The days seem like decades. Seriously, it has got to end soon. It's kind of like this....

Tick.














Tock.
















Tick.




















Tock.

It should be like this: Tick. Tock. Note the lack of time between them.

I should also point out that I have pretty much abandoned my reading list for 2008. In just a month, I will have reading lists given to me. That has to be my focus. But, I honestly cannot wait for that. I am such a loser.

Oh, and why do I not believe that Ryan Seacrest was really bitten by a shark? I think he was sipping from Paula Abdul's soda can if you know what I am saying... Sad, that Seacrest is all I have to entertain myself with today.

I will confess this, though. I have been totally sucked into to Tori and Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Oy vey!

Loco for Loco

So the weekend...yeah...nothing that exciting. Temple on Friday night, dinner with friends on Saturday, dinner with a couple of the kids on Sunday...I promise we did more than eat. Here's a quick recap:

Aside from some half-assed attempts at household chores, the weekend pretty much consisted of watching Loco.

• "Oh, look he's eating a piece of broccoli."
• "Wow! He is going to town on that baby carrot!"
• "Ooh...he's hanging upside down!"
• "Hey! He just pooed on me!" Yeah. That one got a little old.

So, if we weren't obsessively holding him, playing with him, or watching him, we were shopping for him. Let me just say, parrots ain't cheap. Carrier: check! Toys: check! Feet toys for bottom of cage: check! Books (for us to read about him): check! Pinata: Check (Seriously...filled with bird treats and it's not even his birthday)!

Yeah! We are total nerds where little Loco Ono is concerned. By the way, Shlomo does not like that nickname. Everyone else (namely me!) does.

One last litte Loco Ono story and then I will stop for a while. On Sunday morning, Shlomo went to the Hot Bagel Shop around the corner to pick up our breakfast. I was doing my part to get ready at home. Okay, I was fixing myself a coke (don't judge) and putting plates and napkins on the table. Loco was on his perch downstairs. The dogs were in their crates (so as to prevent the begging).

So, I am fixing the coke, which evidently takes longer to tell about than do. All of a sudden, I hear Fargo barking like crazy in her crate. It's really unlike her. I go into the living room to see what is the matter. There is Loco off his perch and walking across the floor. Fargo evidently deemed herself to be the hall monitor. I thought she hated the bird. I prefer to tell myself that she was looking out for Loco's safety and not trying to get him in trouble. It was probably the latter.

Well, that's the big excitement of the weekend. I will get into the wireless printer installation, or lack thereof, later. Now, I am off to go watch Loco eat some Cheerios. Does it get any more fun than that?

What's One More?

First of all, the name is Loco. That’s right…Loco it is, because Loco we are. But, I have to say that if all nights with little Loco the parrot are like the first night, we are going to be just fine. He is relatively quiet. I view this as a good sign. It is better he get quiet when stressed rather than start squawking. There have been a few chirps/squawks, but they are really not bad.

Not that this blog is turning in the The Parrot Diaries, but here were some of the adventures of the first night. Oh, and ignore the extra bullet points. Slight problem with blogger.com. Oy vey!

• Large birdcages are hard to move up the stairs. If you are doing so, make sure you are the one ahead of/above the birdcage. It hurts when they fall on your face. You are talking to someone who learned this lesson the hard way. And, I like to think Shlomo is the one who is not smart. He got me there. But, at least there are no bruises or permanent imprint of the bars of the cage. (Note to Shlomo: when we are halfway up the stairs carrying some heavy object and we have been working 10 minutes to get to that point, there is no need to say, “You’re gonna have to help me now.” Yeah, I was helping…a lot. I was not picking daisies. Everytime you paused, all the weight fell on me.)
• Creepy bird store…while creepy…is actually pretty good. They have a much better selection of most things for birds than your typical Petco/Petsmart. Again, lesson learned the hard way as we visited two Petcos and a Petsmart before finding the perch stand we wanted.
• If you are going to a salad bar at the grocery store to get some chopped fresh fruit and vegetables for your new parrot, make sure the grocery store has a salad bar before you go. We finally found some prepackaged broccoli florets and baby carrots mix. I guess it will do.
• Bird toys ain’t cheap. No need to expand on that.
• Don’t joke with your hairdresser that the day after your last day of work you want to bleach your hair white with one electic blue streak. I kind of think she viewed it as a “Challenge Extended” proposition. Yes, I always wanted blue hair as a kid, but I don’t think I have the courage to pull it off. I know that is not related to Loco, but it did happen last night.

So, I guess I am now one step closer to my dream of riding around on a Segway with my parrot perched on my shoulder. Now, all I need is the Segway and to teach Loco to perch on my shoulder. He is fine with the finger, but still skittish on the shoulder. He will get used to it.

Two Weeks and a Parrot

Well, it is official. The word is out. I will be joining the ranks of the gainfully unemployed on August 2. I am so excited about grad school, though. I am also scared to death. I have to study again. I hope I remember how.

On a brighter note, I went to Target the other day and bought some school supplies. I might have overdone it a bit, but I learned a long time ago that when they have orange notebooks, you better stock up. I think I wound up with eight notebooks…and a thousand note cards…and highlighters…and a rubber band ball (cause it looked fun)…and some other accoutrements.

But, I will share that Shlomo and I are on the horns of a dilemma. He blames me. I blame him. This is how it started.

We went to the creepy (I am not lying…it is) bird store on Saturday to pick up some supplies for the finches. We got what we needed and actually bought a couple of finches to replace a couple that we had lost. It happens. Circle of Life. So glad Elton John explained that one to me.

So, we get home. We put the new birds in the aviary. All is well. We are talking about the birds at the store. Blah. Blah. Blah. Then, Shlomo says, “I wonder when we will break down and get a parrot.”

WWWWWWWHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTT? Shut up. In 7th grade, I was obsessed with parrots. I always swore I would have one as a grown up. In many ways, I am still that awkward 12 year-old. Behind the row of finch cages at creepy bird store is a row of parrot cages. I had spent a large portion of our time there bonding with a little white-bellied caique. He/she looks like this.



So, now the debate is do we get him or not. On the one hand, I think it would be great. I have always been a bird lover. I think he is super cute. I have named him Gilda (red hair like Rita Hayworth in my favorite movie and it might be a girl the only way to know is a DNA test).

On the other hand, I realize what a pain a parrot can be. This is a quieter type, but I am sure there is still some squawking. They are messy. This I knew from the parakeets and cockatiels I had growing up and it has been reinforced by the finches.

But, I will have some time to devote to it and its socialization. It would be nice to get it while we are relatively young since they live 30 years. You read that right, people, 30 years. And, I just picture it sitting on its perch bobbing up and down as I blast “Play That Funky Music White Boy!”

We just don’t know what to do. This morning, before we fell asleep at 1:00 a.m., we had decided to do it. When we woke up, we both had second thoughts. Now, we have had second thoughts about the second thoughts. We already have a zoo. What is one more creature? And, did I mention that everywhere I turn today I see a parrot? In the newspaper, on the TV, everywhere. Oh yeah, and on all those caique sites I keep checking out.

I think it is important to not rush into a decision. It is a big commitment. We need to take it very seriously. I will let you know when Gilda comes home.


***************************U P D A T E *****************************


Zilla and I were leaving for lunch. We were going to Barnes and Noble after a quick stop at Petco and Petsmart to look at cages. I know. I am bad. We are driving out of the parking garage when my phone rang. It was Shlomo.

He was at the creepy bird store. He had held Gilda. He had picked out a cage for Gilda. He thought we were foolish to get Gilda. But, was there anyway that I could drive down to the creepy bird store to see Gilda and see the cage? It was then that I knew. She was ours.

Zilla made the sacrifice. She said she did not mind. I know the place gives here the heebie-geebies. We walk in the door and there is Shlomo with Gilda perched on his finger. I know that this is probably not a good analogy to use in a bird store, but he had a "cat that ate the canary" grin on his face.I held Gilda. I looked at the cage. We got food, toys, a playstand, all the necessities. Gilda comes to her new home this evening.

There is one problem, however. They had had the DNA testing done. Gilda is a boy. Now, we have to come up with a name for him. My list right now consists of: Loco (because we are), Tango, Tamale, Rio, Guapo, etc. If you have a suggestion, leave it in the comments section. Hopefully, we will have a name by nightfall.

Shhhhhh! Don't Tell!

I’ve got a secret. If you talk to me often, you probably already know it. But I am guessing there are at least two of you out there who do not. I cannot decide if I am ready to share or not. But I guess I will. I am quitting my job!

I have been there before. I have found another job and left my current one. This time is different. I don’t have another job. Instead, I am going to “grad school” to study Art History and English. It should be quite the change for this accountant who has viewed his job with an overwhelming sense of dread for the past 13 years.

But here’s the kicker: they don’t know (with the exception of Zilla) at my office, yet. I am giving my two weeks notice on Monday. I don’t think they suspect. So, you have to keep it under your hat.

Can you believe it? No more debits. No more credits. No more out of balance. No more reports no one will ever really look at.

I can barely contain my glee. That does not mean that I am not also terrified. I will actually have to study. What if I cannot tell the difference between the Baroque artists? What if I just don’t get the symbolism that Mark Twain was including just to make it not so simple? And Faulkner? I can’t even say Yoknapatawpha County. Let's not even get into all those Greek tragedies I will be studying in my first semester. I guess if it is a mistake, I can take my inspiration for a dramatic death spiral from them. Just kidding. I am in no way suicidal.

Relax. Relate. Release. I just have to keep telling myself that I am a reasonably intelligent person and I will be disciplined and devote the time to my studies that they deserve. I realize that I am very fortunate to be in this position. The world is my oyster. Really, it's more like the University of St. Thomas is my oyster. And, that is okay. I have the support of Shlomo. And, as Phoebe Buffay would say, “He’s my lobster.” And, that my friends, is a lot of shellfish.

Now, if I only knew what I was going to do when I finish this program in a couple of years…

If You're Going to San Francisco

It is no secret that I love to travel. Shlomo also loves to travel, so it works out well for us. Shlomo also travels a lot for business. I have had jobs where I did that. It was great at the time. However, after a few years, I was ready to be home more often. It was then that I moved from Arkansas to Houston for a job that required no travel. Houston provided many opportunities to do the things I enjoyed on the road (theatre, museums, great shopping) so it worked out well. However, there are certain times when I do envy Shlomo’s trips.

This morning was a prime example. I had gotten up early at home so I would be dressed when the contractor showed up (that is another matter entirely). I did not rush to the office, though. I spent an hour or so surfing the web, watching the Today show, and basically getting in a better mood.

I drove to the office and was greeted by the menial tasks that awaited me. My office…how shall I put this…is the pits. It is not attractive. Gray walls. I don’t look good in gray. So, I am doing a task that a monkey could literally do and I get a call from Shlomo.

“Hey. I just wanted to catch up. I am having breakfast on the 46th floor of the hotel with a panoramic view of San Francisco. I can see the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz, and Coit tower….blah, blah, blah.” I love San Francisco. I could not hide my jealousy.

In a very bitchy moment, I might have said something to the effect of “Yeah, well I have a panoramic view of gray walls. And I can see a stack of paper on my desk. So there.”

If I were nice, I would tell Shlomo to swing by the little ice cream shop where they have the best spumoni ice cream/gelato that I have ever had. He would love it. I don’t think I am that nice. Shlomo, that is what you get. I will tell you about it when we go to SF together.

I know. I am petty. I am fine with that. But look at it this way. This is Shlomo’s view.





This is my view:

So, if you are going to San Francisco, wear some flowers in your hair if you want. Just don't call and tell me about it when I am in a bad mood. And Shlomo, if you are reading this and you decide to wear some flowers in your hair, get a picture. That I do want to see!

A Sure Bette!

So this past weekend, Shlomo and I ventured forth on an overnight adventure. On Saturday morning we packed our bags and hopped a plane for Sin City to see the one and only Divine Miss M herself.

You have to understand, I have long had (as I think every gay man has) a huge admiration and affection for Bette Midler. I have seen every movie of hers (with the exception of Jinxed…which even she says to avoid), I have seen her live twice before this weekend, and I have been known to crank her cds with the top down during my convertible-owning days. The latter is not so fun in a Jeep Cherokee.

She inspired me to go green with her campaign to clean up New York. I hope the others she inspired were more successful. I made it about a month. But still…

Anyhoo, Shlomo and I had waited months for this. We purchased our tickets six months ago. Yes, we had to change them once as her performance schedule was adjusted, but we did so happily. Ironically, we wound up with even better seats.

We get to Vegas. I walk in the hotel room and at that moment I realized that—quelle horror—I had my favorite shirt, but no cufflinks. Now, for those of you who know me well and see me everyday, you know that cufflinks are my signature item. I love them. I have probably 30 pairs. I have new ones. I have vintage ones. I have serious ones. I have fun ones. I have expensive ones. I have cheap ones. I love them all for various reasons.

Strangely, Shlomo, who has in the past few months tried to co-opt my signature look, forgot his as well. So what are a couple of broads in this situation to do? Roll up their sleeves and ignore the French (okay Freedom for you Republicans…although I cannot imagine a Republican would read my blog more than once) cuffs? Uh, no. We both ventured into the Forum Shops of Caesar’s Palace and scored us each a pair. He found a great pair at Pink (purple and sparkly…go Shlomo!) and I scored a lovely jade pair that are a fairly famous design made to look like a bean. Shlomo says they look like jade butts.

I felt a bit guilty. It seemed like a splurge. Then, I reminded myself: this is Vegas. What happens here, usually stays here. These will go home with me forever. Then, as fate would have it, I won enough on the slots and those poker machines for Caesar’s Palace to buy me a new shirt to go with them. It was from Banana and not Armani, but still. It was basically free.

I proudly wore my new links that did not really match my favorite shirt, but were okay and went to see the “Peoples’ Diva” as she is now calling herself. I have to say that she has lost none of her charms since I last saw her about four years ago. 90 minutes (the Las Vegas time limit for shows) of song, dance, and non-stop, over-the-top bawdy energy.

Sadly, I must report that there was no Bette doll to join Cher at home on my desk. But fear not, we did not leave without a terrific souvenir...er, souvenirs…Bette T-shirts, Bette playing cards, Bathhouse Betty soap, oh, and a sparkly ukulele signed by Miss M herself. So, got Divine?

Help Me With My Mission

I love Shlomo. I don’t want to gush for the world to read (and by world, I mean about 10 people who look at this thing). He is kind. He is sweet (to most people). He gives so much of his time to volunteerism. But, one of the things I love best about him is that he is often the creator of some great malapropisms.

A prime example of this ability occurred at dinner the other evening. We went to one of our favorite dives to feast on fried chicken. I know, I know…we need to watch our weight. But we had not had this meal in over a month and it is one of our favorites. If we ever take you there, it will be one of your favorites too.

Being a traditional old school restaurant, the waitresses wear very traditional uniforms. You know the type: white blouse, black pinafore over it, engraved name badge, comfortable shoes.

So we were talking to our waitress who I will call Sherry (because that’s her name). We asked if she enjoyed her vacation. (We don’t know her that well. The restaurant closes for two weeks every summer.) We moved on to how hot the weather is.

She then mentioned that her uniform was miserable and she preferred the old ones which had sleeves that hit about “here.” She put the side of her hand on her forearm to demonstrate a three-quarter length sleeve.

“Oh, arm-capris,” Shlomo chimed in. Arm-capris. I guess in his little, non-fashion-dominated world, it would make sense that if Capri pants hit mid-calf, that three-quarter length sleeves which hit mid-forearm would be arm-capris. Sherry and I could not contain our laughter.

So now I have a new mission. It is my goal to have “arm-capris” become a phrase that is sweeping the American vernacular. I will have to always point out the ACs to Shlomo. However, I don’t think I even want to start explaining “manpris” to him. Oy vey.

And the other thing I love most about Shlomo is his ability to crack himself up to the point that he literally faints. But that, my dear reader, is a blog for another day.

With Friends Like These...

Remember that ad about not growing old gracefully, but fighting it every step of the way… Yeah, I saw my age grow by one over the weekend. I have to tell you, 34 seems much older than 33. I don’t know why. It just does.

So, today we are at lunch and the ever-youthful Zilla (who is 25) says, “So how is the big 3-4?”

I turned up my nose and said, “Old.”

No sympathy from her. Her response: “What? Did you throw your back out sneezing again?”

I am sorry. That was completely unnecessary. Yes, I have sneezed and thrown out my back before. But, people in their 20s are not allowed to criticize those of us who are practically middle-aged. It is just wrong. Wait until I break a hip while going to get the paper. She will feel bad then.

Well, I guess that is all for today’s rant. I am going to go look for a good moisturizer online and figure out how much hair I would actually have left if I plucked all the grays. Getting older, while I guess it is better than the alternative, is not fun.

Do we think one of those machines that Susan Lucci hawks for Guthy-Renker would work to give me a more youthful appearance? If it would not work, do we think it would hurt Zilla if I threw it at her? Seriously, that was just mean. Does she not know I can only dish it out?

What's In a Name?

I will start this by saying simply that I love Nicole. I was always on Team Kidman. However, I do feel that I need to address a certain something: Sunday Rose Kidman Urban. WTF?

First of all, I realize that I had a dog named Friday. I loved him dearly. The name fit him. But, he was a dog. He was named Friday because I got him on a Friday. SRKU was born on a Monday. A Monday! And they named her Sunday.

I am all for unusual names…especially if the kid will not have to spell their name but none of their friends have it. But, I have to tell you, the jury is out on this one for me. Unless, she has some really great story about Keith giving her roses on a Sunday and they were the most meaningful thing for her, I think they could have done better.

Whatever happened to the normal celebrity baby names like Lourdes and Rocco and Apple?

The Heiress

My entire life I have had this sneaking suspicion that somehow, somewhere I was destined to be rich. Either my birthparents had struck it rich after giving me up for adoption and were trying to track me down, or their was a mix-up at the hospital and I belonged to some rich family, or there was some long-lost relative with a bunch of oil wells who had just kicked the bucket. Well, let me clear these suspicions up for everyone (including myself). I am not adopted. There was no mix-up at the hospital. I was born in a rural hospital in a small town and was the only baby in the nursery at the time. There could be some oilwells with my name on them somewhere, but I doubt it.

However, yesterday...my ship came in so to speak. Six years ago this past April, my grandfather passed away. It was sad. We were close. It was a short battle with cancer. But, we were all at peace with it. My grandmother had struggled with cancer for 9 years. He had been through that with her every step of the way. We all (including him) were thankful that he did not have to repeat her fight.

Then, on April 28, 2008--six years to the day after his death--my brother and I both received papers in the mail concerning his 401k equivalent. Our hopes were up...but I knew for them not to be. Yes, it would be nice to have some extra thousands lying around. I am sure I could put them to use. If nothing else, our art collection could expand further. Or, two words: tummy tuck.

Both of us filled out the papers and sent them in the next day. I waited a couple of weeks and heard nothing. I called the number that I found online. I found out that it would take 30 days to process to determine if we were in fact beneficiaries. Not so patiently, I waited. I checked the mail religiously. I compared notes with my brother once a week or so. Nothing.

After the 30 days, I called. Turns out, they had just started the investigation the day before. It would be another 30-45 days from that point. Clearly, this was a government operation. They could not tell me if I had been listed as a beneficiary or what the balance of the account was. I had to wait some more. However, I decided that I would call every Wednesday until I heard something.

Then, yesterday the envelope I was waiting for was in the mail. Shlomo found it. He was filled with anxious delight as he waited for me to get home and open it.

I tore through the very thick and very securely sealed envelope. There it was...that magical notification. I was in fact a beneficiary on his account. I am entitled to 12.5% of an account with a vested balance of $36.21. That's right...my share (as well as my brother's) comes to $4.52 before taxes. $4.53 if they round it up. All my life I have waited for this moment and it's four measly bucks.

So, the next time I get my soy chai tea latte at Starbucks, it is on my grandfather. I love being an heir.