Defrauded of the Parrot Lotto

My parrot is almost an adult.  His head used to be entirely gray, but now it’s growing in bright sunny yellow, which is a sign of sexual maturity.

These are the words he can say: “ABE!  I’m ABE!” “Silly Beak” (his nickname); “Step up,” “Cock-a-doodle doo!” and “Toe-orrist.” It used to be “terrorist” because he chases after me and gently bites my toes of they’re painted red, like a game, but I started calling him my little Toe-orrist, and it stuck.  He also imitates the sound of my sneezes and the microwave beep.

Oh, a jerkola parrot at birdie daycare in the next cage taught him something new: “Hey, Baby!”  He loves it.  So, now I have a catcalling bird, and I feel like his friends are a bad influence.

Anyway, I have a bad thing that I do to him every now and then.  It’s cruel but I think it’s funny as hell.

Abe LOVES peanuts in the shell.  He likes to hold them in his little dinosaur foot, upon them and fling the shells all over my floor, and then devour the nuts.  If he could, he would live off of peanuts.  I have to ration them to one or two a day, because otherwise he would become a malnourished bird fatass.

The joke is: I take the peanut bag out of the fridge and put it on top of his cage.  It’s made of heavy-duty transparent plastic.

Abe crawls up there, and when he sees a huge bag of his favorite food, he goes nuts with excitement, like he won the Parrot Lotto.  His eyes pinpoint and dilate, his beak drops open,  and then he raises his wings up from his body and starts dancing back and forth.  I’m a leprechaun with a pot of gold!  BONANZA!

He runs over to it and immediately tries to grab a peanut.

Thing is, he can’t: the bag is transparent but the plastic is too strong for his little beak to penetrate.

Peanut heaven so near, Abe.  So near, yet so far away.

He crawls madly over the bag for a few minutes, trying to find/bite a way inside.  When he can’t do it, he starts squaking in frustration and glares at me (can’t tell whether he’s asking me to help him, since I AM the provider of food and peanuts, after or, or whether he’s hating my guts).

Abe doesn’t hate me.  Abe LOVE me every single day.  We hang out for hours together whenever I’m home, and I take him with me when I go to visit the Collector. On the airplane, he sits with me in his travel crate.  The vet gives me drops to put in his water so he is sleepy and doesn’t make noise. Collector is a bit jealous of him (who can be jealous of a little bird?  I never play with Abe when the Collector is home; I only make sure he’s fed and watered and put him to bed….and I neurotically dust-buster the floor because God forbid Abe molts or flings a few pellets on his furniture).  The Collector says Abe needs to be “more independent.”  I told him that is not how parrot psychology works; they need to be near their “flock.”  Leave a parrot alone too much, and it starts to develop the anxious, neurotic behaviors you see in animals in shitty zoos (and human felons in solitary confinement, I will add) : relentless pacing and self-mutilation.

I only torture Abe with peanuts once or twice a month, because it’s funny, but sometimes I do the opposite: I let him into the ENTIRE BUCKET of pellets for a few minutes, and he dances and swims around like Scrooge McDuck in his gold coin money vault.

Love that bird.  I don’t have much in my life that loves me, but he does.

Abe’s Night Terrors

Every now and again my parrot, Abe, gets a night terror.  This is why I am confident that he must dream of things.  I’m not sure what he dreams of–probably that something is coming to eat him.  He is a prey animal, after all.  Dogs dream (presumably) of chasing squirrels.  The parrot must dream of being snatched by a raptor.

He falls off his perch, to the bottom of the cage, and shrieks at the top of his lungs.  He wakes me up and I run to him in the night, terrified that he’s hurt himself somehow.

I pull him out of the cage to inspect his body.  Sometimes he’s wet because he fell into his shallow birdbath.  When he’s wet in the middle of the night like that, it scares me because he doesn’t carry his wings right when his feathers are saturated, and I worry that I need to take him to the hospital.

I hold him on the sofa until he is sleepy again.  I sing to him and keep the lamp on.

I worry about what he has nightmares about.  He’s not stupid.  He’s smart, just in a different way from mammals.  He’s curious and he can figure out puzzles. In his eyes, you see something, it’s not mammalian but it’s there. I love him so much.  I also feel badly that he has to live indoors with me, many thousands of miles from where nature intended him to be.

This Autumn, he will finish going through puberty. I will need to buy a girlfriend for him because it is unnatural for him to live all alone, the only one of his kind.  He will not love me as much when he has a female of his species, and that makes me sad…but I tell myself that what is important is what is important for ABE.

He has been such a joy to my life that I am happy to have another parrot in the house.  It will take a while to find the right one, because Meyer’s parrots are rare.  I am going to name her ABIGAIL (get it? Abe and Abigail?) or SWEETLING.  I won’t let them have babies or give them a nesting box…but you can prevent parrots (at least the ones I have experience with) from having babies if you prevent them from nesting.

I’m just going to go cry now.

Some Bitch Stole My Purse

UPDATE:

The Show Must Go On.   I’m going to San Francisco tomorrow, and I’m doing it on a shoestring.   The Greyhound bus ticket is $9 (at least they offer onboard wifi now, or so they say).   And, best of all, I found a last-minute deal on a 3.5-star hotel in Union Square for $91/night on Priceline.com.  This is wonderful, because usually I have to pay at least $220/night to get a 4-star in that area.

The hotel looks nice enough–the Tripadvisor reviews are good.  The room’s the size of a postage stamp (“boutique” and “European” are the euphemisms used on the website), which is going to be a challenge in a session, but hell, I’ve still got lots of bondage options, and if I can do BDSM in my bedroom, I don’t see why I can’t do it in a little hotel room.  I’ll try to look extra-beautiful and give a great performance, and if the room turns the clients off and they don’t come back, well, I still got their money, and there’re always more clients in the world.

I’m also saving a lot of money on gasoline and parking garage/valet.  Cuz I don’t have a driver’s license (I’m going to the DMV today, wish me luck).

I’m going to have to get up at 4 AM tomorrow.  My biggest fear is that Greyhound will be “you get what you pay for” and will be, like, two hours late, which will cause me to miss my first booking.

I also need to drop off my pet parrot, Abe, at Birdy daycare (the boarder).

Here are pictures of Abe.  I have lots of videos, too, and I’m trying to figure out how to upload them on the blog.  Cuz that is what my 8 readers all really want to see, I’m sure: parrot videos.

20151109_163030

 

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He likes to look out the window

 

First Snow
First snow of the season

 

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What a disaster.

Yesterday morning I got up early and went to the gym before my alcohol rehab support group.

I’d been there about five minutes.  The place was almost empty, because it was 8 AM on a Sunday.  Went into the locker room/bathroom, took off my coat and purse.

I left both on the countertop by the sinks.  I did not see anyone else in the locker room.

I went into a stall to take a leak, and when I came out 30 seconds later, my purse was gone.

My purse that had my wallet and my sex work cell phone.

I panicked, of course, and ran out of the bathroom to see if I could find anyone carrying it out.  The gym is huge, but I didn’t see anyone.  I ran past the front desk and out to the parking lot, looking for someone getting into their car or walking away.

Nothing.

I dashed back inside and told the front desk that my purse had been stolen and asked them if they’d seen anyone just walk out.  They said no.

(I am willing to bet you anything that it was a staff member of some sort who stole it.)

I went back out to the parking lot and looked around, and then back to the locker room.  I looked underneath my coat.  I looked under the sink.  I looked, for no reason I can discern, in every single locker, and then I went out to the floor and approached everyone in the gym.

Then I went out to my car and sobbed.

I fucking hate thieves.  There is no reason for anyone older than, say, 14 to be stealing anything but food. Being stolen from is the worst feeling in the world, a mixture of helplessness and violation.

But let me tell you why having my purse stolen is especially bad:

First, the phone.  It’s an expensive phone that hasn’t been paid off yet.  I needed a work phone to keep things discreet and separate.  I wash the phone on a regular basis…delete phone logs, text conversations, stuff like that.  But…it has my client list in it (no last names, just first names or the affectionate or UNaffectionate monikers I think up to describe the guys), with phone numbers.

More importantly (from my viewpoint) I have the numbers tagged that have been abusive, timewasters, no-call-no-shows, drunk/inebriated, blacklisted.  That way I can recognize them on sight when they reach out to me and IGNORE THEM.

I’ve also used that phone to take pictures of clients who want a photo as a souvenir, or who as for a photo of me as a souvenir.  I never let them photograph my face, and I try to delete the photos after every session…but what if I didn’t delete them all?

I take pictures of my hotel rooms, pictures of sightseeing in SF…there’re lots of videos of my pet parrot in there, because I watch the videos at night when I’m on tour and sad and lonely.   So now this THIEF has video of inside my apartment.

But wait, it gets worse.

On Friday, I did my banking and paid for all of my monthly bills at once, because that’s how I like to do it.  Then I took out some cash to pay for Abe’s boarding at birdy daycare while I’m on tour, and the month’s alcohol rehab support group.

And I also took out the money to pay for this week’s tour to San Francisco.

I do that because I keep a separate bank account, at another bank, that I use for anything Biz related–ads, hotel rooms, BDSM gear.  I take the money out of my main checking account and deposit it into that other account.  I only check that account from my home PC.  I’m very secretive about it.  Like, I don’t want to accidentally leave my online banking browser open on my tablet and have my mother see it and ask what all the hotel bookings are for.

I should have gone to the other bank to deposit it immediately, but I procrastinated and just took the money home with me.

So, in addition to getting my wallet, this thief also got all the money.

My savings is tied up in a CD.  I have $10k and I can’t touch it. I have almost nothing left in checking after paying the bills.  I’m strapped, and I need to go to work, and I have no idea how I’m going to do it.

Anyway, one I was done sobbing, I filled out a lost-item report in the gym and then went to the cell phone store and had them turn off my phone and disconnect the number.

Went to the police station and filled out a police report (I almost didn’t do that, because it means claiming the sex work phone…but it’s not illegal to have phone numbers).  I know I’ll never get anything back, but I wanted to make a paper trail.

Then I took my guns and all of my gold jewelry and started touring the pawn shops.  What depressing fucking environments.  I mean really, really depressing and sad.

Everything that I have of value is hawked.  Oddly, I feel saddest about my revolver.  I’ve had that thing for 15 years.

It’s not enough.  I have enough money to get to SF on the train (because I can’t drive there without a DRIVER’S LICENSE and the only ID I have is my passport) and a day and night in a hotel room.  I have three sessions lined up and I’m trying to get another.  If they all come through, I can extend into the next two days and meet the sessions I have scheduled for those two days.

If I get cancellations or no-call-no-shows, I am fucked.  If anything goes wrong, I am fucked.

The only reason I am not completely freaking out is that at least all my monthly bills have been paid (except for food.  Ha! Ha!).

I want to find the bitch who stole my purse and beat her head in with a rock, caveman-style.