!Attention Senor Herrera!

     Dear Senor Herrera:

     Thank you for your interest in my blog.  My website is open to all adults, and I am flattered that you decided to follow it.

     However, I have a concern that I must discuss with you.  It is a delicate matter, and I hope you won’t take this too personally: your avatar photo is really creeping me out.  I’ve been trying to get used to it all day, and I’m afraid that it’s just not happening.  The, shall we say, colorful content associated with your name that I found on the web is also problematical, but at least I don’t have to look at it if I don’t want to.

     Would it be possible for you to change your photo?  Ask a friend to take one of you.  Or take a new one with your cell phone.  Take it outdoors so that it doesn’t look like a mug shot, and smile, for chrissakes.  Because your current photo simply will not do, it won’t do at all, and it seems unfair to make me disable the Google Followers function just because  I cannot blog comfortably with your goosebump-inducing picture hovering there in my peripheral vision. 

     Thank you for your understanding,

      Miss Margo 

Parrot Goodness V

     I love parrots. 

      This year, I need to get a mate for Parrot.  It’s really the least I can do for her.  They’re like cats, in that you can keep two as easily as one.  Like a slave, she can never be free.  The only quality of life she has is the one I provide.  

      Did I tell you that I let her fledge?  I did!  After much deliberation, I let her grow out her flight feathers.  She is three and a half years old, and had never been able to fly.  Her first owner kept her in a PARAKEET CAGE for a year and a half and never touched her.  Her second owner, who was a really good owner, nevertheless keeps all her birds clipped.  It is not an unwise policy.  The bird gets out the door or the window, and it’s dead.  

       But birds are designed to fly.  It is simply what they do.  In their natural state, they fly for miles every day.  

       I let Parrot’s feathers grow, and eventually, she started taking the occasional, cautious lap around the apartment.  She’s still pretty clumsy, but she’s new at this!  Sometimes she flies into my room (she can see me from her cage in the living room), crash-lands on my bed or desk, stares at me, and then flies back to her cage.  Sometimes she gets lost when she can’t see her cage, so I gently approach her and pick her up.  She steps onto my hand when I offer it, even when she is afraid.  I am moved by this.  She trusts me! She has never once bitten me. 

      Like a small child, she loves it when I watch her.  You know how kids say, “Watch me do this!”?  Parrot is like that.  Just watching her makes her happy and excited.  She sees me watching and starts to do her Happy Parrot Display Dance.  She darts back and forth and turns around and lifts her wings and trembles.  When she first started doing this, I was alarmed, and consulted the parrot experts on this internet parrot forum I belong to.  I thought maybe Parrot was flipping out.  The experienced parrot owners told me that Parrot was doing a “Hello, Friend!” greeting.  

      She makes the noise of the microwave beep, the cell phone ringtone of her last owner, the hiss of the radiator, and she is trying to talk.  She can almost say her name.  

      I love my Parrot.

      These are YouTube videos I enjoy which feature awesome parrots:

African Grays are probably the smartest birds on earth.  I have read nothing which indicates otherwise.

Bet you anything this cockatoo wants to go to the trees. That is sad, but I love how expressive he is.  Cockatoos are the most emotional (as we understand it) of parrots.  That is why they self-destruct in captivity.

This is a senegal parrot, like Parrot!  This guy is a terrific parrot owner.  His parrot loves the hell out of him.

Friday Night Date with Spencer

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     Spencer and I had a date last night.  I think that it went pretty well.  

     Rocky start.  We were supposed to meet at 6:30, but then he had to postpone till 6:45, and then I couldn’t get out of work till late and said that I’d be there by 7 pm.  Traffic was terrible, so I ran 5 blocks cross-town and over twenty blocks and met him at ten after.  I just google mapped it; it was a mile and a half.  I did that in rush-hour traffic in 20 min in makeup and nice dress and flip-flops.   He was kinda sore about my being late.   I understand he was concerned about being stood up–being stood up really sucks–but I said I’d be late and COME ON, the Studio is not exactly the IRS office.  If Frau Farbissina is ten minutes late paying me, I have to wait till she reimburses my fee.  Same with my students.  What am I going to do?  Report it to OSHA?  

     I have the vague suspicion that he doesn’t think that I respect him enough.  I could be wrong about this, and I hope that I am. 

     Everything else was awesome!

      He took me to a Japanese restaurant which was the equivalent, I guess, of a Japanese casual bar and we ate Japanese pub food!  It was full of Asian people (mostly men) and a lovely professional barmaid with bangs.  

“Abandon All Compassion, Ye Who Enter Here.”  Delicious Animals on Skewers

     Behold, the menu! There had to have been at least 30 different animals available for eating within its pages.  The animals are grilled or fried or broiled or otherwise prepared.  I have to hand it to the Japanese: they don’t fuck around with the animal eating.  They will eat ANYTHING.   Ignore that Shinto propaganda–they have no respect for animals.   


    I’m not bashing the Japanese .  We torture animals too.  

         Delicious animals.  I guess that in Japan, you can get exotic animals on sticks.  yum yum yum

            I intend to write more about Spenser tomorrow,  and continue this narrative.  

        I asked him to stay over at my place next week.

        I haven’t had a man overnight in my bed in a long time. 

Monstrous Mutant New York Cockroach Terrorizes Studio Workers

    Update Sunday 06/03:

    Melody, a braver and more conscientious woman than I, disposed of the roach when she came in for the night shift.  She is a beautiful African-American mistress with a huge, forceful personality. She is funny, too.  She has another job with involves persuading people to buy things. 

     “How long has that roach been there?” she asked, ten seconds after walking in the door.

     “I don’t know.  Not long!” I lied.  “Sorry I didn’t pick it up.  I’m scared of roaches!”  Not a lie. 

      She got a paper towel out of the bathroom.  “It’s dead?  You sure?  It’s not going to move if I touch it, is it?”

     “Nope!  It’s good and dead.  Been like that since I saw it!”

      She picked it up and was even good enough to dispose of it in the outside dumpster and not into the toilet or the nearest trash bin, which is where I would have put it if my cowardly self had been forced to do the deed.  

       Three cheers for you, Melody!

         *                       *                    *                    * 

  New York residents should be advised that a monstrous new breed of hideous mutant cockroach is loose in the city.  

    Not an hour ago, I rolled into the Studio, lunch salad in one hand and laptop case in the other, ready to spend a lucrative afternoon alternately blogging, editing papers, and entertaining wackadoodles. I turned on the lights in the lounge and what did I see crawling around but A HUMONGOUS HIDEOUS MONSTER OF A COCKROACH!!!

     I am not bullshitting you, gentle reader, when I say that this fucking thing was two inches long WITH WINGS.  I’m telling you, it really was.  I have never seen one this big outside of the South.  It was bigger than that bastard who occupied my dust buster for a month last fall.  

     I immediately dropped my laptop bag, squealed like a piglet, and backed right out the door.  

      Miss Margo required assistance.  

      I went to the Manager’s station.  I asked her if she could deal with bugs. 

     She looked up from her computer screen.  “What kind?”

     “There is a huge cockroach in the lounge.  Huge.”

      Nope.  She couldn’t deal.  “I hate those things!  I heard there were a few upstairs the other–“

      “No!  Don’t tell me, please!  I don’t need the visual!  Don’t wanna know!”

       I went back to the lounge and peeked through the crack in the door.  I was hoping maybe the Alien Cockroach Mothership had beamed the fucking thing back up to outer space where it came from, but noooooooo, it was still there!

     I asked another girl in the other locker room.  She laughed at me.  

       “Is there a man around?  Anyone?” I asked the manager.  We could make a sub kill the bug!

       No men around.  Not a single Y chromosome in the house. 

       I stood in the parlor for ten minutes wondering how I was going to resolve this situation.  I couldn’t come up with anything except maybe spray it with bleach from across the room (not that that worked last time) or solicit a stranger from off the street for cockroach-killing assistance.  Pardon me, sir, would you mind stomping a roach for us? 

      Finally Molly arrived.  I explained our predicament.  Or I should say, my predicament, because Molly was not paralyzed with loathing and disgust.  Nope!  She tossed back her long blonde hair, strode into the lounge, and stomped that roach with her big romper stomper boot before my and the manager’s very eyes.  

      “I ain’t cleaning it up, but it’s done!” our heroine announced, and went to the bathroom to apply her makeup.  

       Fantastic.  The worst is over.  But the eternal question remains: how to dispose of the body?

       The manager wasn’t going to touch it.  And I couldn’t just leave it there.  Not where I could see it.  

       I fetched a broom, intentionally blurred my vision so that I couldn’t see the details of its hideous body, and cautiously approached with the broom fully extended in front of me.  

       The manager watched from behind (this was NOT Frau Farbissina, by the way.  Frau Farbissina would have either told me to kill it or be terminated from employment–“Some Domme you are, yes? Yes, scary Domme!”–or else she would have killed it herself, picked it up, and thrown it into my hair).  

      “I hope Molly really killed it!” said the manager.  “Sometimes if you don’t really crush them, they come back!”

       I pushed the broom closer and closer to the disgusting roach.  When the bristles almost touched it, the manager screamed: “Arrrgh!  It moved!”

      I shrieked and dropped the broom and retreated.

      Then I peeked through the crack in the door.  

      That damn roach hadn’t moved!  It was laying right where Molly stomped it!

       I turned on the manager, furious.  “YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE!”

      “No I didn’t!  I didn’t!  I thought I saw it move!”

      Scary Dommes, right?  Big bad scary sadists!  

      I went back in, picked up the broom, and did something I’m not very proud of…here it is, the Awful Truth:  I pushed that roach, at the end of the broom, over by a locker in the corner.  

      I can just barely see the tip of its body out of my peripheral vision.  Even in death, it terrorizes me.    

      I planned to write about my date with Spencer first thing this morning, but it was either write about the terrorizing cockroach, or drink scotch.  My sobriety must come first, I think we can all agree! 

      More later, once I am calm again.

      If you would like to come here and dispose of the cockroach’s body, please email me: piecesofmargo@gmail.com.  

      If you are a bug scientist, you can come get this creature to aid you in your research.    


“That’s What You Get.”

   Update 9:45  AM  
    Okay I feel much better now.

     Why doesn’t the iPhone come with an instruction manual?  I’m a moron; somebody help me.  I can’t get my photos off of it.  They are fun to look at on the phone, but I have to get them to the blog.  

    P.S.   Parrot flew to one of my bookshelves and ATE most of a book.  I hope it’s not toxic!  Books aren’t toxic, right?  They can’t be, or else kids would die from them. 

          *                   *                  *                 *              * 

   AAARGH I had the most awful dream last night!

    I have a date with Spencer tonight and I dreamed he didn’t know about the Surgeon and went to the Surgeon for surgery.  The Surgeon did it wrong on purpose to punish me and made Spencer paralyzed, as if he’d had a stroke.  

     And the Surgeon got away with it, too!  He sent me roses and wrote me a note: that’s what you get. 

      Major panic!  I haven’t had a bad dream about an ex like that since John!  

      I am going to the gym.  I have to get this out of my head.