Saturday, February 20, 2010

I rarely find motive in bird vomit.

Have you ever been standing in an acquaintance's home while they're on vacation, with a vampiric cockatiel hanging off your neck, and thought Gee, I need more turtlenecks? Of course you haven't, and undoubtedly I have--recently. And so I present to you Tales in Poor Judgement: The Case of the Rabid Fowl.

Dom volunteered us to pet sit for a coworker last week. Not a difficult job, just feeding the menagerie over at their house every day and making sure to replace any dead fish before they get home. It's been going well, aside from the attack from birdzilla.

This green, feathered monster is a master at manipulation. He was cute and cooing at the door to be let out. And in my naive, misdirected brain, I pictured him perched on my shoulder while cartoon squirrels and deer surrounded us for a karaoke night. Instead, hopped on my husband's hand and nearly bit his thumb off.

Since I grew up with parakeets for pets, I assumed that these were just "love nibbles" and that Dom was being a wimp. So I swooped in to let the bird perch on my fingers and chew on me for a while. That's when this avian Dracula decided I was good eatin' and charged toward me.

I think he was headed for my jugular, but missed. Because he's a bird and not a doctor. However, he did manage to attach himself to my neck skin and stretch it out as far as he could go without bleeding.

The shrieking and flapping (of ME) finally got him to flutter off back into the cage. And do you know what happened the very next time I came to feed the boogers? I got pulled over by a sherrif, in the driveway. I took too long digging for my registration, so he let me off with a frustrated, verbal warning.

Today's subject line quote is Dr. Jack Hodgins, "Bones" (2005) {The Girl in the Mask (#4.22)}.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Limited range forward vision is available should you require it.

When I was a kid, my mom told me that Elton John didn't need glasses at first but still wore them as an accessory to enhance his already outrageous ensembles. Later, I saw an interview where he boasted a walk-in closet full of custom frames for any occasion. So when I found out I needed glasses 3 years ago, I was ecstatic! But when I found out my insurance only paid for lenses and not frames, I wondered if they could put them into a pair made out of duct tape.

This time, I bought some cute frames at Icing for $10 before I even made my appointment. They're black with a pink backing to accent around the sides, which are a diamond shape attaching to the earpieces. I was going in prepared! My hope was that my current prescription wouldn't have changed enough that I could keep my ridiculously expensive, yet fabulous pair of brown frames and just add these to my collection. Perhaps I would match Sir John's stature of eccentricism by the year 3056? (And yeah, I am about 96% sure that I just made that word up.)

But you know how the Chance cards in Monopoly sometimes make you go back 3 spaces? I don't need glasses, not even the ones I already own have been using since my senior year of college. At least not according to Dr. Sassypants, doctor of opthamology and douchebaggery.

After waiting in his office for half an hour after being hit up by the chattiest nurse, who managed to make a 5 part questionnaire last 15 minutes, Dr. Sassypants strides in and asks, "So what are we doing here?" in a Don't you realize it's Friday? tone.

What was I supposed to say, I'm here for a bikini wax? I'm getting my eyes checked, dumbass. It's pretty much your sole job there at the OPTOMETRY clinic. And yet, he still made me feel like an idiot for coming. In fact, when he asked where I was getting my headaches, I replied "at home" instead of indicating where on my head I was getting them.

Two hours after arriving, I'm showing up to my hair appointment 20 minutes late and with dilated pupils that make me look like an anime character because he forgot about me while letting the drops "take effect." By the end of the exam, he was silently scribbling in my chart so I asked, "What now?" Know what he said? "You tell me." I'm sorry, did he mistake me for his ex? Did I give him the cold shoulder one day at Winn-Dixie?

In the end, I get to do things the same way Elton John did. Make my fortune while wearing glasses I don't need, and wearing frames just because they're cool. Or I could sell them on craigslist for a dollar.

Today's subject line quote is Zen, "Blake's 7" (1978) {The Web (#1.5)}.


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