Parrot Finds Love
I was at the Post Office mailing a package when I noticed the sign across the street. It was big. Bold. Inviting.
It was a sign advertising the store, Petland.
Remembering I had a cat, and that my housemate was getting increasingly pissed with him, I thought it would be prudent to zip over and find him a toy that didn't belong to her cat.
This is quite an interesting story. You see, Whiskers (her cat) is a big, neurotic, black cat who likes to meow, hiss, and run around looking traumatized. Jonesie (my cat) is orange, laissez-faire, and never stops purring. His vocal activities include changing the volume, pitch, and tone of his purrs, with the occasional chirp or trill thrown in to indicate pleasure.
In our home, which is increasingly becoming Wild Kingdom, there also lives Jazz (Sister's chihuahua) and Duchess (Brother-in-Law's cat). Jazz is the stereotypical dog who thinks she is a cat. She is the same size and color as Jonesie, loves catnip, and gets along famously with everyone (save Whiskers).
Duchess is the dramatic foil to Whiskers. She is equally large, yet elegant. She has long, white fur, a regal disposition, and even if she does not approve of what the Orange Ones are doing, she doesn't scream about it as though it were an attack on her person.
What makes this even funnier is that we all agree our personalities match our pets' personalities.
There obviously has to be a perception difference in there somewhere. Really.
Regardless, while Whiskers is yowling on top of the refrigerator at Jazz's effrontry of being in the same room as she is, Jonesie is stealing her mouse toy from her room. While the yowling increases, Jonesie and Jazz chase each other for the mouse, and before one can laugh at the hilarity of the situation (or at Whisker's discomfiture) Jonesie has been unceremoniously thrown INTO his room (an ironic twist from me throwing him out of it) and put into time-out by Whisker's owner.
It has to be annoying that another cat steals your cat's toys, so regardless of my personal feelings for Whiskers and her owner's idea that my cat is deliberately out to torment her cat, I shall nip this in the bud and purchase a nearly identical toy for the Orange Ones to share.
With this in mind, I entered Petland, and completely forgot my original errand. This isn't because I was staring at the psychedelic neon fish (there was an eel, too!!), nor because the puppies were adorable. I, my friends, was being wooed by a parrot who simply couldn't get enough of me.
If it weren't so damn funny, it would be disturbing. I have no idea what he found so fascinating.
He kept following me around the store, repeating "I love you!" in a very loud voice. He acknowledged no one else, but fixated on me. For half an hour the entourage of Bird and curious customers followed me as I browsed 99 cent stuffed mice and the eel. During this time Bird proclaimed his love for me twelve times, told me I was pretty about five, and came dangerously close to clinging on my arm. I was half-expecting him to propose marriage.
Either this is a clever bird eager to go home with me, or his trainer specializes in luring in women as the firm basis of his clientele (Given a month with me, I guarantee you Bird would be speaking differently).
As much as I enjoyed toying with the idea of an adoring pet proclaiming "Jill rules," and quite possibly "Laura is a dork," the last thing we need at home is more hot air.
I purchased the mouse and left him with an "Its not you, its me." I hope he finds another.
Taxes
This is the first year I have ever had to do my own taxes, and I cannot say I relished the experience.
I knew I was in for it late January, when my mother cheerfully mailed me one of my Michigan W-2 forms and a Michigan tax booklet. Inside the booklet, emblazoned cheerfully in red ink on a post-it note, was a little snippet of advice from her to me: "Uncle Dave's phone number is *** if you have any questions."
Uncle Dave is a tax attorney. At least I think he is.
After groaning rather loudly to anyone who would listen (which was the chihuahua, who only was there because she thought my grumbling preceded food), I sat down and made a list of what I had to remember for my taxes.
TAX LIST
1. MI MTU W-2
2. GA Retail Hell W-2
3. GA Insurance Company W-2
4. Student Loans form 1098-T
5. Tuition and Fees form 1098-E
6. Something chocolate
7. Uncle Dave's number
8. TaxACT (my brother-in-law's tax program which will help dummies do their taxes)
After painstakingly reading over my list and deciding I had all documents which could theoretically get me a deduction or credit, I decided to begin. My only other options for a rainy Georgia Sunday were to either help 'improve' the shed in the backyard, or to watch Nascar. Taxes it is.
'Tax Blitz' Sunday at a glance:
10:00 am - throw cat on floor.
10:30 am - throw cat in hall
10:45 am - leave for church
12:30 pm - eat
1:00 pm - watch two minutes of Nascar (no accidents)
1:02 pm - sit down at computer with paperwork and decide I need a break
1:05 pm - decide I need alcohol to continue, but remember I don't really like alcohol
1:10 pm - 3:00 pm - Enter information, alternately yelling at the screen and even getting the adoring chihuahua to abhor taxes
3:20 pm - go buy cream-filled donut
4:00 pm - declare initial victory with a sizeable Federal refund
4:01 pm - caught victory-dancing to "Rich Girl' in kitchen by family members
4:05 pm - decide how to spend refund (IE, shove unceremoniously in savings account)
4:10 pm - dance around with the Chihuahua (who is once more adoring)
4:22 pm - decide I will tackle MI and GA state taxes and double-check my calculations at some point before April
4:30 pm - shower
5:00 pm - eat
6:00 pm - 11:00 pm - watch TV (My splurge. Actual TV). I just KNEW Patty on the Simpsons was a Lesbian.
11:10 pm - throw cat on floor
Sadly, while groaning about taxes is something I have become a pro at, I am not the only one. Whining about taxes and pawning them off on others has practically been an art form since there were taxes. In my family alone, let us travel back through time.... Beginning from most recently, my family's tax history may appear something like:
I once made my mommy do mine.
She in turn handed them off to Uncle Dave.
I'm sure, back in the day, my dad made his parents do his.
Some relative in the Civil War probably politely asked somebody to do his- at bayonet point
Pissed about retroactive taxes, someone probably went to a party in Boston.
Back in the old world, some relative probably defaulted on his taxes and was shipped over here (Australia wasn't opened yet, I assume).
In Biblical times, my family were probably slaves, and traded as taxes.
In pre-Biblical times, my ancestors may have been deemed too annoying and chattery by the powers in charge, and punished by being sold into slavery.
-Somehow, I wouldn't doubt it.
Valentine's Day Dilemma
Valentines' Day is upon us, and the office in which I work has succumbed to the cheerful, rosy hues of red and pink. Every woman in the office is wearing a red or pink blouse. Even some of the men are in crisp red or pink dress shirts.
Despite all the attention to detail by my coworkers, I really doubt anyone is more preoccupied with love at the moment than myself. Not love in the sense "I hate Valentine's Day because I will never get flowers," (I am too wonderful to pass up, of course), but the "I wonder what the next romantic drama to unfold will be" type of sense. At best, it can be entertaining, in preferably happy outcomes. At worst, I make lots and lots of cookies and supply cheap vodka.
I like to think that is not as sad as it sounds.
Regardless, Wilson seems determined to unknowingly oblige me. Apparently, Mark, our FedEx man, has brought three packages to us instead of to Pepsi, whose office is down the hall. Whining to Wilson about it (I am still not quite sure what he does, although he is the nicest guy) has led to the most fascinating twist.
Suddenly very interested in my story, Wilson volunteers to walk the packages down the hall to Pepsi. Not one to miss a behavioral change brought about with the same subtlety as being suddenly hit by a tank, I immediately launch into nosy, investigative mode (I like to call this 'concern').
I justify this because if my keen spidey-sense is working (or my dependency on knowing all things in the office to perform my job), another love-lorn member of society is banking hope on a breath mint, a cheerful smile, and optimism the leggy blonde who works for Pepsi will remember they shared an elevator. Her name is Roxy. I believe she has a boyfriend. I also believe Wilson may not be in the know.
I am torn between letting this play to completion (I could be wrong about her romantic status), and between sparing him potential heartache and/or humiliation by forewarning him. Enter more attractive option three: verify hunch with gentle probing and volunteer casual offhand information while appearing ignorant (I have to cover my own ass, I work here after all).
Luckily for me, Mark has seen fit to bring a package into my possession for an office the floor above me. Coincidence.... who cares. My egg has hatched.
"Wilson, since you are delivering Pepsi's packages, could you take this one to the office upstairs for me?" I am ALL sugar and honey here. Probably a mistake. I am never honey, unless I am cornered. His delivering the package would be nice, though (under normal situations, I would just ask, so he is right to be cautious).
"You want me to go upstairs? I would rather not, I am too lazy." He pauses. He knows I am pawning off work on him (I never get to pawn off work on anybody), but is not quite sure why. Great. Just great.
"So, why are you walking to Pepsi, then? Would it be that much more work to continue down the hallway and push the elevator button?" I am starting to get annoyed. Can he not see I am using the honey voice? He has heard me use that to kindly tell callers where they can go. Where does the line between tact and bluntness begin?
"I kind of want to talk to the girl who works at Pepsi." Well, he apparently knows. I am a crappy liar, even indirect half-lies. But nor is he stupid, either. He can read between the lines as well as any. Time for the kill.
"Is she the brunette? She seems nice. I haven't really spoken with her, but Roxy says she is. You met Roxy on the elevator this morning." I pause.
"She is dating someone, isn't she?" Truly not an idiot.
"I believe so... but I could be wrong. It never hurts to be friendly." One day, office politics may even permit a direct personal conversation.
"Very true," he gives an infectious grin and pops a breath mint. "But I'm still lazy, so you can take that last package upstairs."
I will never get to pawn off my work on anyone. Damn.
The King's Cake
Friday at the office dawned beautifully. One of the lawyers brought in breakfast, I was wearing jeans, and I had no faxes, emails, nor voicemails to mar my peaceful morning. As I sat daydreaming about what I would do during Carnival and buffing my nails (not buffing so much as using scissors to eradicate a hangnail), The FedEx guy brought up the packages.
There was one package that caused me to shove the scissors to the side and take notice.
This box was covered in cartoon-like scrawls, with a big print label marked "King's Cake." Intrigued, I asked who sent it. FedEx didn't know. A few more discreet inquiries later, the addressee didn't know, either. Not that it mattered. I was simply happy because we had a cake in the office.
While I was attempting to use my special Receptionist-vision to see through the box and determine the flavor, Christy (a Rep) walked by and stopped, amazed. "That is entirely inappropriate!!" she exclaimed, shaking her head and continuing, "I wonder what flavor it is. They can be really good."
Before I could puzzle out why a cake would be inappropriate, Nancy (Agency) walked by. "Wow! A King's Cake! I wonder who sent it." perplexed at the responses elicited by the cake, I decided to take the prerogative to get to the bottom of it. I WANT TO KNOW (I am relentless in pursuit of knowledge- unless it is an sn1 or sn2 type organic chemistry-type knowledge).
"Nancy, what is a King's Cake?" I asked. She looked at me, somewhat surprised. I doubt anyone in the South has ever asked what a King's Cake is, I guess. "Well, it is as holiday cake, served around Mardi Gras time. It usually has some fruit in it {I deflated a bit at the fruit-instead-of-chocolate part}, and a baby."
"WHAAT?!!" My mind was in the gutter. I don't know why it occurred to me that people would eat a cake made of babies, but that was my first thought. I must have looked horrified, because she quickly continued "A FIGURINE baby. It is a symbolic religious cake that bestows luck on whoever eats the slice with the figurine inside. It represents the baby Jesus, the King."
"OOOhhHh." Hence the name, King's Cake. I totally get it.
My thoughts immediately came in the following order:
1. Religion in the office is a sticky topic regardless of flavor.
2. If that figurine is plastic, I wonder which chemicals are leached into the cake.
3. I don't want that piece.
4. I am a closet nerd, without the closet.
5. Is it, or isn't it chocolate?
Well, it wasn't chocolate, but we ate it anyway. It is more accurately described as a large cream cheese Danish. Not worth the second piece, but well worth watching another lawyer nearly choke on baby Jesus. Happily, both lawyer and plastic infant are fine.
I like this tradition.
My Life as a Fairy Tale
I have a very special relationship with the office accountant, Jane: She makes me do her work.
While not one to usually bitch about the intricacies of office politics that make circumstances such as this acceptable (if observing the proper forms), every now and then something happens which makes me wonder why she hates me. And, which in turn, goads my ire enough to cause me to whine.
Not that I am against venting, I count it among my few unmarketable skills.
Today's Jane-given task was on par with detention in high school. For no intelligible reason, I was singled out to be punished by performing some inane chore. Like being punished in high school, the work is so pathetic, you know you are being punished because it is so useless you can't trick yourself into believing you are being productive. (Come to think of it, there was a college course like this, too. I call it Institutions. Others call it World Cultures, or Physics II)
This leads me back to my task at hand: to sort through a ream of paper, and remove two separate documents the printer happened to interprint (I simply KNOW the IT guy hates me). In addition, I had to separate each document into three categories.
I remember looking at Jane with wide eyes, and before I could stop myself, blurted "Why do you hate me?"
She laughed. Perhaps she thought it was a joke.
Regaining some composure, I continued "Is there any way we can simply reprint them?" (we waste reams of paper daily). She smiled. "No. Paul (the IT guy) says we cannot." She smiled again. "I'll be back for these, later."
Judging from the tone of voice, 15 minutes.
I can't help but compare my trials with the useless documents (destined to be tossed after I sort them) to a fairy tale I once read. Actually, it is Greek Mythology. This would be the tale of Cupid and Psyche.
To make a long story short, Cupid (the god of Love) married Psyche, a mortal (who came to his attention when his mother, Aphrodite, got pissed because the masses were saying Psyche was prettier than she was. This type of conflict always ends badly, go read Arachne and Athena's story if you think otherwise).
Cupid agreed she was hot, so he married her in secret. She had NO idea who he was, because he was invisible, and she was never allowed to see him. All the servants were invisible too, but he was disgustingly rich... yeah. Right. I guess she was fine with it (It is all greek to me).
One day her sisters visited and were jealous. They convinced her Cupid was a demon, and she should kill him. So Psyche was going to... but then she saw he was hot, and accidentally wounded him instead. He, of course, was mad. Not to mention he whined to Mommy, who appears to be the Mother-in-law from Mt. Olympus. I'd say they are in for counseling.
Regardless, Psyche had to do many things to prove her love.... I forgot most of them, but they were on par with my work. I remember because one of them was to sift grains of wheat from barley (about 3 bushels?) in an hour. She got lucky. Apparently her servants never used ant-killer, and the colonies were grateful.
So, unlike this happy tale of a relationship gone sour (but she did end up a full goddess, so she must have been really hot), I will see no rewards for my trouble. Unlike this story, I have 15 minutes instead of an hour, and no ants. (which, if there were ants, would see to another task for me, I am sure)
While on the fairy tales topic... I know many young adult books start with some ordinary girl being whisked into some fairy-tale like setting (as do some cheap romance novels... I got obscenely bored one summer. While completely lacking content, these books were full of heroines too-stupid-to-live. Very disturbing). I can't help but think If I were 'whisked away' what would happen. Here is what I came up with:
Red Riding Hood: I end up with a fur coat. This isn't Isle Royale... so what?
Cinderella: If Charming can't outrun me, and I am in one glass shoe and a party dress, perhaps the Tavern scene is decent.
Sleeping Beauty: Finally!! a heroine I can RELATE to!! Odds are 3:1 I punch the idiot who woke me up. Did he brush his teeth? OH GOD, My breath must be hideous!! The early-relationship gaffe.
Beauty and the Beast: I doubt my personality could bring about such a dramatic change in someone. Not for the better, at any rate. But at least I'd get a rose out of the deal (what can I say, I am a sucker for flowers).
Snow White: My mother is wonderful, therefore I have no idea how to deal with a motherly figure who isn't. However, if someone wants to kill me (I guess I can concede there may be a few) and ACTS on it, then I count that person as an enemy and I will take steps of my own. Including but not limited to asking directions to the next Kingdom from 7 little dwarves, or cultivating some poisoned pears. Who wouldn't trust me with a pear?
Goldilocks & the Three Bears: I'm a brunette. I also don't break and enter, or trash houses other than my own. However, I have also never tasted bear, but have just found the perfect opportunity. (I guess bear meat is riddled with parasites, so it will have to be a well-done opportunity)
The Pied Piper: I would convince him he needs an agent, and then have him simultaneously scheduled for 'Medieval Idol' and pest removal gigs. After fame and fortune grind him down and he becomes bitterly psychotic, I get a reward for informing the town of his plans to kidnap all the children. Not a completely heartless worm, I will use part of his earnings to find him a psychiatrist.
The Gingerbread Man: After that chase, yes, I feel justified in biting his head off. The fox better leave me the top half so I can do just that. If not, I can use a bow and that fox better run.
Bremen Town Musicians: I cannot sing. I fake my dancing. I have found my niche.
The Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe: If, by old, they mean over age 10, then yes. If not, my cake candles burn the shoe down, and my wards and I work to build an actual house (between scheduled classroom lessons and OSHA standards of child labor). When they hit their teens, I call the fully-recovered Pied Piper as soon as I have a mental breakdown of my own.
The three Little Pigs: MMM. Ham AND a fur coat. I am doing well. (Not that I actually would ever wear fur)
Lord of the Rings: I will sit my butt on Tom Bombadill's land and REFUSE TO LEAVE until the ring has been completely and utterly destroyed in Mt. Doom. I refuse to be eaten by an Orc. (Somehow, I just know I would die immediately and in a painful way).
-It is funny how wild my imagination runs, because my next thought was that my friend, Em (applied ecology major) was going to be chilling with the Ents, and that I would be jealous. I can totally see her helping them with a leaf rot problem.
And while my life may not be a fairy tale... for that I am grateful.
