Where are they now?

Yes, it's been a while - work and school have taken priority over writing - for the moment. Long term, nothing makes me happier than writing, so this is not permanent. However - there are only so many hours in a day - and 12 hour demanding shifts plus intensive courses to finish this degree have taken their toll on my free time. At the moment, I'm on a brief medical leave, and although I arose early to study Statistics (hey, my body had surgery, my brain did not!!) - I find myself here.

Hello, I missed you!

Let's bring you all up to date. We are still in Austin, and although I love it here most of the time, I still hate the heat. Since it's not hot right now, enough about THAT. Becca is working in our home state, where her circle of friends are. She''s about to make a job change that looks good for her, and is doing well, although I miss her greatly.

Brandon also returned to UCLA later that year to finish his degree, and had trouble finding a job in this economy. He stayed in Los Angeles for a few months working and trying to find an entry level position that related to his career goals, then returned to the Bay Area with the same lack of success. The job market is tough out there, and new grads are not only competing against each other, but all the older people that are out of work as well. His father pulled some strings and he was offered a good job, but at the last minute chose to go into the military. Apparently it was something he had been thinking about for a while...he's very driven and motivated, has aspirations and did not want to ride on his father's coattails, so to speak. There were a lot of things that attracted him to the military - travel, learning, making new friends - but this decision leaves me with such incredible trepidation I can barely voice it.

As a child, I spent a large amount of time with both sets of grandparents, since my mother was ill and hospitalized frequently. Thank God, literally, for my grandparents...they were a Godsend to both my parents and to me. As a child in Pennsylvania, I grew up with the ghost of their only son who perished in World War II - his picture in the living room, his Purple Heart framed on the wall, the memories of him everywhere. Their heartbreak was palpable throughout the years. They tried their best to go on, and did go on - but the anguish was always there under the surface. I swore as a child, and continued that vow; watching the Vietnam War on television while in my grandparent's living room, the news reports - that I would never let my son go into the service. I told myself I would never, ever let my son be a soldier. When Brandon was born, I cradled him in my arms and whispered to him I'd always, ALWAYS protect him. I even imagined that if the draft was ever reinstated I'd spirit him away to Canada if necessary. (TMI: By the time I gave birth to Becca and Brandon, I'd already lost my mother and sister - so I was fiercely, frighteningly overprotective!)

I never dreamed it would be HIS decision.

So....since I couldn't talk him out of it, I am now 1000% supportive of him. He's a very smart young man, and the military knows that, and he'll not be on the front lines, I'm told. I'm in prayer.

At his graduation from basic, when they walked out from the forest in clouds of colored smoke in formation, I was struck with panic and fear initially. This was everything I did not want for my cherished son, right in front of my very eyes. Everything I grew up with, right in front of me, in my ears, the noise, the drumbeats giving me a horrible sense of fear...it was just horrible...for the initial few moments. I needed to get a grip on my emotions, right THEN, before he saw what a mess I was. I needed to hold it together and be proud of him, for him, for all of them.

My other Grandfather had just passed in September. I could hear his voice saying "We've got him, Annie". The voice of comfort and reason once again - as always, my entire life growing up. You were my angels in this life, my Grandparents, now please be his angels up in heaven...

I collected my wits by the time the ceremonies were over, and we had a wonderful two days with Brandon and his buddies. I am incredibly proud of him, and of his choices. I will do whatever I need to do to be a supportive military mom. Thank you for listening while I pour my heart out.

In God We Trust

RIP Grant Richard Messenger

Kete (SS-369)

http://www.navsource.org/archives/08/08369.htm

Black Leather and that Little Grey Smile

"Want some?! Want some?Want some?!!?" I swear, I've NEVER seen a bird this excited about ANYTHING! His visible disappointment when the sugary fix isn't forthcoming is almost heartbreaking, tempered by my knowledge that I have to dodge his sharp little black beak. I can certainly understand why the wife gave him the candy to keep him from taking chunks out of her hands....I'm sure she was desperate. The hate in his beady little eyes is clear! When he sees I'm coming to change his food and water, but don't have his candy, he's poised for attack. I try to distract him with a slice of apple or a chunk of orange. No dice. Fresh, natural sugar is not an option for this guy. He's holding out for the real thing, with my fingers as hostages. Since I work with my hands and do NOT need a port of entry for microorganisms that my lovely patients might carry; out come my nice black winter leather gloves. I suddenly feel like I'm about to commit a crime.....*evil chuckle*!


No crime from me, instead Figaro commits the crime, trying to destroy my gloves. I cringe, hating to sacrifice something I've had for years (since the early 90s, but Becca doesn't need to know that or she'll laugh at me, thrilled at the chance to point out yet another "old" item I need to give away...YES, I wear my clothes pretty much until they fall off my body.), something "nice", (but living in Texas, something I hardly wear anymore)....but giving kudos to Nordies, in spite of our little grey meanie's attempts to mutilate the gloves, he doesn't even make a mark. Yay! I can use these for falconry, should I want! (I am kidding. Maybe.)


I consult with De, from Wings of Love Bird Haven near Dallas; the reputable bird rescue that has brought Figaro and myself together. She has several helpful suggestions regarding his nutrition and subsequently, and hopefully, his behavior and acceptance of me. I continue to work with the little gray brat. He tugs at my heart every time I look at him because he looks JUST LIKE QUELA but he is definitely NOT QUELA....as the bite marks on my hands and fingers attest. Fellow nurses at work make concerned noises when I come in with new wounds. I continue to work with him. He continues to respond positively only to Jack.


However, the sounds and vocalizations that are coming out of Figaro are hysterical! In addition to his huge bilingual vocabulary and song repertoire, he has now picked up all three of our dogs' barks, mimics Ruby's phrases, and scolds the two naughtiest dogs in my voice. I must say it's a little eerie when a ball of gray fluff is saying back to you what you don't even realize you're saying...such as when I cleaned his cage, finished laying new paper in the bottom, and as I pushed in the tray, before I say a word, Figaro says..."There you go". And talk about intelligent...I do believe he's even more intelligent than Quela was; judging by the short length of time it takes him to pick up a new phrase or sound. African Greys have the intelligence of a five year old child, it wouldn't surprise me if Figaro had the intelligence of a surly teenager, since he obviously has the attitude! One day Jack and I were talking about taking my car in for an oil change, out of the blue we hear from Figgy: "Volkswagon". We looked at each other in shock - no matter that I drive a Honda - still that he would associate the words oil change and general car banter with a car manufacturer? Wow. Just wow. And THIS is why I love the species.




Several weeks later, however, progress is at a standstill, and De and I confer. We agree that he would be better off at the Haven, where she can work with him more intensively. I am in agreement, as I feel that although he loves the food aspect of living here (little piglet! He eats more in one day than Ruby does in four!), he doesn't like the *me* aspect and he's not adoptable at this point. We make arrangements to meet half-way with another bird volunteer; the lovely and personable Meghan - and off we go. I put him in his travel cage in the front seat for company for the drive to Temple, the half-way point. On the way up, he tries to pick holes in the leather upholstery, change gears, and finally out of fear of him trying to hijack the car itself and take off for parts unknown, I pull over and stick him in the back, his travel cage surrounded by parts of a larger cage. The rest of the trip is uneventful, and I hand him off to Meghan. She chats him up a bit, places him in her car, and he immediately tries to bite her and escape from his cage. She exclaims "Why, he's a little s$^#!!!"

Yep, he is.

Biting Foster Child

Fast forward a few months, Ruby is working out beautifully.....literally and figuratively.
She has such a sweet personality, although I am the only one that can handle her. I almost wish she wasn't so gorgeous. I'd love to have her outside more or take her places with me like I did my Gray or Cockatoo, but she would attract so much attention, not all of it positive. I am very protective of my sweet baby girl. She's been through enough, she had to be given up by her first owner at age 15 and stayed at the avian rescue place for several months before we took her home. Parrots are extremely sensitive and emotional creatures, with the intelligence of a young child. Am I tugging at your heartstrings here....?

So we'd like to complete our little nest (Sorry, could NOT resist) with another parrot. (Just ONE MORE. We KNOW where this has gone before - in my previous life I had four...wait, five! at one time. Some were fosters, two were rescues, but still...too many parrots. All talking in different voices, making different dog barks and cat meows, all trying to out-do each other...Claude used to remark that the house sounded like a locked psychiatric facility. I had to agree. But hey, it was fun! Even if Claude didn't quite think so, and looked upon my avian hobby as an expensive way to keep me relatively happy. Smile, Claude.) So yes, a feathered friend that Ruby would enjoy as company, not competition; one that my husband Jack could handle, since Ruby only has eyes for me and reserves that large biting beak of hers for Jack. We contacted a reputable bird rescue near here, and although they had no African Gray parrots available at the time, I filled out the extensive adoption application and faxed it in. We were approved, and life went on.

I actually forgot about filling out that application, and was taken by surprise when I received a phone call a few months later. A week later, Figaro was ensconced in isolation upstairs. He spent the first week glowering at me and trying to bite me every time I went to change his water or give him food. This bird came with several warnings: (Rescue and foster birds usually do.)

1) He hates women.

2) He might bite.

3) He might have behavior problems.

BUT....he also came with a long list of positives. African Grays are probably the most intelligent parrot out there, and this bird had an enormous vocabulary. Born and raised in Puerto Rico, he was also bi-lingual. I speak a little Spanish, and could understand some of what he said in his native tongue. He also had a nice repertoire of songs he would sing in different voices, his favorite being "Happy Birthday to You" which he would sing several (many, MANY) times in a row, changing it up to "Happy Birthday to Me". "Me,me, MEEEEEEEEEE." Oooh yay, Narcissistic Personality Disorder, in the cage to the right!

This little guy was cute, and since Congo Grays all look pretty much the same, my heart melted when I first saw him. Just like Quela! My attitude is "Love conquers all" so I reached in to skritch his little head, and I promptly got bit. HARD. (Smile, Claude.) Ok, I won't try to touch you or get you out of your cage for a while, Figaro. Especially since your flight feathers are fully grown out, and you're not really ours, either! I have a very good friend who lost a beloved Gray that way. Fortunately, that bird is in Southern California where the weather is temperate in the winter, and we're in Central Texas where it was 17 degrees a few weeks ago. (Which I personally adore for a winter temperature, although these little Texas cupcakes - women AND men alike - all complain about it.)

I decided to concentrate on getting him onto a good diet, since he came with a plethora of horrible food. His previous owners were well-meaning, but poorly informed as to what parrots need for proper nutrition. Salted peanuts and salted sunflower seeds, artificially colored pellets...I wasn't sure if they fed him any fresh fruit or vegetables, but he was about to get them every day. In spite of his poor diet, he looked fat and happy, but I thought perhaps he might feel better and be even happier if he was eating better. Due to being bonded with the man of the house in his previous life, and having to be given up for health reasons, the wife had been taking care of him and Figaro hated her, bit her, and the feeling was probably mutual. Hence the warning that he hated women. True that - he loved Jack's presence. He would sidle up to the cage and coo at him, flirt with him, listen attentively to him....you playah! I'M the parrot person around here, don't you know that? Both of you, stop that now!!

The wife, in desperation to keep from being bitten by Figgy, bribed him with candy. He came to my house with a little bag of sesame candy in his little suitcase, and the minute he saw it or heard the crinkle of a wrapper, he'd start jonesing for his fix. Sugar is one of the very worst things for parrots, as it makes them prone to fungal infections. This bird was ADDICTED. His eyes would bug out and he'd run back and forth on his perch, saying "Want some? Want some? Want some!!?" over and over. I'd break off a tiny piece, out of compassion for the detoxing addict, and he'd focus on his fix and leave me alone while I changed his food and water. Sigh. How to get him off his drug of choice?

Creatures great and small, beaks and all....!

Last summer, we adopted a 15 year old Scarlet Macaw. I absolutely love parrots, but due to their long lifespan and conservation issues, have decided to only have rescues or foster birds in my home from this day forward (well, from that day last summer). I intended to adopt an African Gray, having had one in my previous life (when married to my first husband). Quela was an awesome, amazing bird. I brought him home as a baby and he bonded with me, loved me and lived with us for five years. (I initially wrote "loved US" but that wouldn't be correct, now, - he was definitely a one-person bird and bit anyone else who tried to touch him. To this day Becca HATES birds, thanks to Q.!) He mimicked all of us with eerie accuracy. He made incredibly accurate microwave, telephone, and doorbell imitations, so I sometimes literally didn't know where to turn in my own home! I can't tell you the number of times I came tearing out of the bathroom thinking someone was at the door or on the telephone. Oh, such excitement! But there's more...

This bird was incredibly intelligent. He loved taunting the dogs. Our dogs were smart (well, ONE of them (the Akita) was quite smart, the other, a lovable Pug...not so much....) but Quela was smarter! He had my voice down pat. After dinner, he'd lean out of his cage and direct his voice toward the back door...."You want to go for a walk?" Both dogs would be at the back door, tails wagging...and I'd be still at the sink, cleaning up the dinner dishes, oblivious to the eager canine anticipation building in the backyard. My ex-husband (I love to tease him and refer to him as my BabyDaddy, which elicits the reaction "WE WERE MARRIED FOR SEVENTEEN YEARS!!" Hee.) Anyway. Oh, the memories. I love revisiting this time in my life. R....let's see...what should I name him...? Your blog name shall be..."Claude". Anyway - back to the subject at hand....Claude used to park his car in the driveway, parking logistics being what they were; and I'd pull my car into the garage. Quela would hear the keys in the front door and say "Claude? Claude? ClaudeClaudeClaude??!?" He (Quela, not Claude) would hear the garage door open and my car pull in, and start saying "Mom? Mom? Mom's home!" He would use his vocabulary so appropriately (again, Quela, not Claude, although with Claude being an attorney, he did that quite well also; let's give credit where credit's due. And maybe he'll read this and next time we have to confer via telephone re: Becca or Brandon's latest monetary or existential crisis, he won't be QUITE so...um...negatory. Smile, Claude.)

Now I would STILL have this bird, owning a parrot is a lifelong commitment since they live to be 60-80 years of age, or more. I loved this bird, he and I spent time together every day and he was a part of the household and family. He would eat oatmeal out of a little bowl every morning with the kids before I took them to school. (So CUTE!) His sense of parrot humor was funny - when he wasn't taunting the dogs, he was trying to make Becca like him. (He was well aware she didn't!) One time we were all on the couch watching MST3K - if you remember this show (I HOPE it's still on, it's priceless.... three robots and a nerdy guy commenting on cheesy movies!).....a mummy parachuted down to earth or some such scenario, and Becca HATES mummies almost as much as she does large parrots with sharp beaks. She slunk away from the TV across the room, near the bird cage. Quela came over within view of her, saying "Becca? Becca? Becca?" which only served to annoy/irritate/emotionally upset her even more. Tears ensued, we changed the channel, and of course, she still didn't like Q.

That summer, we had some extensive work done on our home (another entry, another day titled "Be Aware of What Your Contracted Workmen are Doing When You're Not Around" - we had extensive asbestos contamination. FUN. ). We had to move out for the rest of the summer, and I boarded the dogs and the parrots stayed with my neighbors down the street. We had the dubious pleasure of running our lives from the Marriott Residence Inn...you know you're there too long when Claude is asking the morning staff for specific breakfast items and calling them by name....PLEASE, Claude! My lovely neighbors had an African Gray that was a female, named "Doc". (Initially, they thought Doc was a boy, a common mistake with parrots.) Little did I know that sultry Miss Doc would become...The Other Woman. Yes, she and Quela pair-bonded over that summer, and when I brought my Quela home, he stopped eating and started feather plucking. My beautiful pride and joy, who had never featherplucked in his little life, was now completely miserable, unhappy, and lovesick. A few weeks later, I resigned myself to him needing to be with his mate. I was sad, I cried, and I never got over that bird.

So this was what I wanted - another African Gray. For months, I put off going to the local Bird Rescue because I knew I'd get sucked in and come home with something, and wasn't sure I was ready. My good friend was in the process of adopting a Blue & Gold Macaw; and she kept telling me I should go see the Scarlet that her bird was raised with. So I did...and yes, I got sucked in.

OK, Blogger...I'm trying to add a picture here, and you're not letting me.

(To be continued)

Critter!

Short and sweet - just like her:  I walked into the living room to find our smallest Girl... STANDING ON THE COFFEE TABLE.   And looking at me innocently... "isn't this a great place to stand?"

WHAT got into her?!?  She's never done that before, none of the girls have ever gotton up on the coffee table before!  (Unless you count the time several years ago that Paris stood on her back legs, eyed the green apple slices I'd cut up for Becca and me to snack on while watching a movie, and snitched one.)   Perhaps she witnessed the time (just recently) that Kate stormed the back door during our Second Annual Texas Thanksgiving and made a beeline straight for said coffee table, wherein a very expensive layered pesto/cheese/sundried tomato torte resided.  She dived openmouthed into that torte and ate approximately a third of it in one gulp.   Jack swiftly (for a change) foiled her and carried her through the audience right back outside.

We are dog lovers, but we're also medical people, and like things CLEAN.  I don't go around bleaching every available surface the way I did while I was taking Microbiology (sorry, kids and first husband!  I hope the fumes didn't take too many points off your developing IQs! ), but clean is still important.  

Nope, little Critter, you are NOT allowed to stand on the coffee table.  No matter how cute you are.

Back to school.

I absolutely love my job.  I went to nursing school specifically to be a L&D nurse.  (I'm not a huge fan of being around actually *sick* people.  Stop laughing, yes, I am a good nurse, in fact, I've been referred to as an excellent nurse.)  But fifteen years later, it's beginning to take it's toll on my physical body.  (And heart, and mind...as goes our bedtime prayer.)  I spent a good portion of this past summer off work due to having my left foot pretty much reconstructed.  No, it was NOT fun, Texas in the summer is waaay hot.  And now I have a hip giving me trouble...I'm a little young for this, YES, I'm speaking to you, my joints, bones and tendons!  There is nothing as thrilling as being a part of a family's welcome to a new baby.  I haven't kept track of how many births I've been a part of over the years, but it never, ever gets old.  Each delivery is amazing and exciting.  I love that part of my job.  

I used to love the fact that I spent 36 hours a week literally running most of the day.  It kept my weight down - God only knows what I would weigh if I didn't work labor and delivery!   But I ache now, when I come home at night.  I ache walking up the stairs to our bedroom.  My back aches..my feet hurt, in spite of the best shoes I can find.  My hip throbbing wakes me up at night, and I can't sleep on that particular side.  This is not cool, I'm way too young for this kind of physical difficulty.  My family lives forever, trust me, and is in great shape.  My 97 year old Grandfather is getting around better than me, at this point!   So it's time.

I always thought to myself I'd go back to school "when the baby is older."  That baby is now 22, and I THINK he can deal with it.  That is meant quite sarcastically - I hear from him maybe once every two months, unless I track him down with kidding-veering-into-threatening emails, phone messages, and MySpace messages.  Is there a reason he won't add me to his Facebook?  Gee, I wonder.  :)

So - I start in a few weeks....an online RN to BSN program that will take me a little over a year. Of course, the Overachiever Within will probably try to rush that part of the process along.  Nearly five years later after my huge cognitive thinking overhaul, she's still there.   But we get along better now, and she doesn't run the show the way she used to.  After I finish the BSN program, I am going to do some sort of graduate program, and I'm not certain in which direction yet.  I have a year to think about this.  I would love to go into clinical psychology, counseling, therapy...something along those lines.   The other direction I could go into is CRNA, (challenging! interesting! but might involve working nights for a time! which I do not ever want to do again!) but I'd have to go out of town for schooling, and I'm not crazy about that idea.   I had toyed with the idea of being a PA years ago, I'll look into programs for that that are local.  I'm hoping to find a new career that is interesting, challenging, and easier on my body.  I'm praying for guidance and - I've got a year to decide.