Reunion

Almost two years ago we parted ways with the last of our pet birds. Eleanor was our first and our favorite parrot. She is a Sun Conure. She is beautiful, and she is nearly melodic in her ear piercing renditions of the sweet sounds of other birds, mechanical objects and the occasional human voice. It was hard to keep her in our two bedroom apartment with a newborn baby whose sleep patterns were entirely unpredictable - if not non-existent. She's a sweet little bird. Loves to cuddle under the blankets with you, loves to sit on your shoulder and pick at your split ends. I just wish she had a mute button.
The look of warm relief on my husband's face, however, was enough for me to hold off on stuffing her and serving her with a nice Chianti. He was the one that hand fed her from a little hatchling. He's the one that went on an all-out multi-front campaign for month after month to convince me that we needed this parrot. And, thusly, that we needed to shell out the $500 necessary to secure her release from SuperHugePetMecca and welcome her into our lovely home. That was in 2001. For those who are unfamiliar with parrots, they are long lived. They are intelligent, they are most often messy, and they are without a doubt high maintenance. They are the two year old that lives 45 years. We will still have this bird when we are incapable of wiping our own asses. Our mornings will forever be serenaded at whatever time - relative to the Earth's rotation- the sun comes up.
So almost two years ago we found Eleanor a good home. A home with pet savvy people. We surrendered her with the express instructions that should her choruses and vibrato musings irritate beyond the point of return, or should she bite through the lip of any small child, that she is to bring back our Harpie of Love straightaway.
Allen came home yesterday to a note nailed to our front door from said foster parent requesting a call.
So just as I was pulling up from work around 7 last night, I hear it. Her. The noise commenced.
Don't get me wrong, I adore Eleanor. She's sweet and smart. I taught her how to whisper!
But since Riley dropped my entire bottle of CrazyMeds into the abyss of the toilet and turned them into Celexa Slushie, my ability to "deal" with Her Royal Harpieness is greatly diminished.
That, and I am nearly to the point of throwing the company-provided laptop that occupies our kitchen table into said toilet. It is a life-sucking lighted box and has robbed my dearest loving husband of his ability to hold lengthy conversation with anyone. Including the virtua people he is playing poker against. That's usually limited to exclaiming "Cocksucker!" to said lighted box at 12:30am CST.
And it reminds me of a scene I noticed once, much to my dismay: a young woman, walking her two small children in a stroller while listening to her iPod. What's wrong with this? You say?
If you have to ask, ( in the infamous words of John) you're not my friend anymore.

Speaking of John, he emailed me this morning about his workplace angst. Part of the email reminded me that I not only had to go to the bathroom, but re-reminded me of my post-partum bladder weakness:

"Frustrated? Me? No. I love stupidity. I want to hold it close to me and squeeze it so tight it's eyes bulge. I want to make sweet, sweet love to stupidity and spawn dolts and buffoons and inept morons. Oh yes, indeed. "

Man, do I dig me some John. Even though he has "The Gay".

Holy shit.

So my last few weeks have been recockulous. My daughter spent the weekend in the hospital, my meds ended up full of water, I got in a blowout with my boss and my mother is quite possibly moving back east.
When it fuckin rains...
Riley is fine, I'm awaiting a new shrink, the boss is - well, it is what it is, and I could give two shits and a hollar if my mom stays or goes. I'm that fed up.

I had considered some topics for my next post, and as they often come to me while I am on the can, I think I'll start there.
I truely believe I am a scataphob. I have an odd set of rituals that I go through when taking a shit at work. Said rituals do not apply when I am home, as there is no door, no lock and no implied privacy that will keep my children from conversing with me whilst I shit.
I am very nervous about shitting at work. I'm almost wondering if this is part of my OCD-ness. Even though it is blatantly obvious to my other cell-mates (per the odor) that I am taking said shit, I feel compelled to wad up some toilet paper to act as a buffer against the inevitable kerplunk.
Is that normal? Is it odd that I have done some tracking as to peak and off-peak lavatory traffic and made every attempt to alter my defication times accordingly?
Am I the only person that does this? Please lord say no.
Pooping is a normal human activity. A necessity, if you will. We all do it, else we perish.
And am I the only person with wet wipes in their purse for the express purpose of post-poo follow- up?
I truely do wonder about this - ah - shit. Odds would say that there is no way in hell that I am the only one like this. Odds also say that the likelyhood of this being appropriate workplace and/or cocktail party converstation is slim to nill. I leave the floor open...