Sorry, my bird sent that email

Persil, my charming little lovebird, has only one bad habit. Well, some might say that his tendency to chew on important papers, poop on me and everything around, and his predilection for humping people's hands are also annoyances to be dealt with, but I'm fine with living with those aspects of his personality. However, when he hops on my computer and sends an email, that really gets my goat.  


Never has it been more embarrassing than when I'm in the midst of writing a goodbye email to Leif Ericson. Leif sent a kind note, reiterating that he's not in a place to commit to anyone right now. After reflecting on things over the weekend, I was happy to say goodbye with affection and finality; Leif is a good guy, but he may need years of therapy before he's ready to be a good partner to someone. And he hasn't even started therapy yet, so it'll be a while! 


I like to spend a long time on such emails, craft them carefully, do some soul-searching to determine if there's any anger I'd like to express, and go back to read them again and again before hitting "send." Unfortunately, Fate had other plans for me in this instance. Just minutes after I had begun work on my reply, Persil did his little hop on my keyboard. Rather than my carefully constructed epistle, I was forced to content myself with the following message: 


Dear Leif, 


I completely agree and am glad we've reached the same conclusion. I was thinking over the weekend that I'd prefer not to call it "putting things on hold" when that's not really what it is. While I like you and have enjoyed spending time with you, I don't feel that you're in a place to be a good partner to someone right now. 

I've been well aware of your complex emotional state, so you have nothing to feel bad about. Thanks for all the beautiful sailing trips, my first trip across the Longfellow Bridge, the fireworks on the 4th, 

That's when the little hippity-hop led to the message, "Your email has been sent." I shouted "noooooo!" and waved my arms futilely at the computer screen, then shook my fist menacingly at Persil. 

A few minutes later I followed up with:

Uhh, sorry about that. My bird has a bad habit of hopping on my keyboard and hitting "send" before I'm quite ready. Anyway, I think I was mostly done. You get the gist. Feel free to get in touch if you ever feel like getting a coffee and catching up. 

Heathen

Leif's comment in reply: "That's a very tech-savvy bird you have." 

I've finally done something I should have done long ago and enabled "undo send" in my gmail settings, so that should take care of the problem. 

Finger violation

My little lovebird, Persil, turned one year old recently. He's changed a lot over the past year, from a tiny little antisocial ball of pin feathers to a lovable, friendly parrot. Next week I'll be marking the one year anniversary of the day my previous lovebird, Haricot, flew away. They say pets can't be replaced, but frankly, with lovebirds I haven't found that to be the case. I still feel sad that Haricot's gone, but for the most part it's pretty hard to tell the difference between him and Persil.

Of course, as well as his personality, Persil's sexuality has developed over the past year from a newborn to a young adult, and like any young adult, he's got a high libido. Like Haricot, Persil enjoys occasionally partaking in mating rituals with me -- he regurgitates seeds, for instance, and does a little mating dance that involves making clicky noises with his beak. However, for the actual business of masturbating, Haricot liked to find dirty tissues lying around and mount them. Persil, on the other hand, prefers the more traditional route of masturbating with something alive -- and there's unfortunately only one living thing around: ME. Specifically, he tries to mount my fingers. It's hard to imagine feeling taken advantage of by a creature who weighs a scant 50 grams, but having my fingers raped by him feels very disturbing. And it's harder to put a stop to than you'd think. You can get him off, but as soon as you stop paying attention he's right back in the saddle.

I don't mean to boast, but this isn't the first time an animal has wanted to have sex with me. My pet rabbit used to try to mount me, too, though with less success than Persil. At the time, it seemed less disturbing, probably because I was ten years old and didn't really understand what he was doing.

Sigh. Maybe he'll discover the eyass soon and move on to greener pastures. In the meantime, I really need to go take a shower.

An Ode to the Toad

I asked another first grade teacher in my town recently if she had named her toad. She replied, "No. I am very careful with that. I tell them that it is a wild animal, not a pet like a cat or a dog. It is there for us to learn from and observe, not to love or cuddle."

Hmm. All good points that I'm sure the kids would benefit from, although at this point I think it's a bit late for our beloved little toad, Hoppers. I checked with another teacher to get her opinion, and she said that she thinks kids learn eventually not to personify animals anyway, so not to worry about it. Unfortunately, it seems not to be a lesson that I've ever really taken in.

It all started on my first camping trip when I was five. My sister, dad and I went hiking in the White Mountains. We hiked approximately 12 miles in to the shelter we stayed at, with packs that were around 50, maybe 60 pounds. (Though when I repeated the same trip at age 17 I discovered that it was actually 2.25 miles and the "packs" weighed circa 7 pounds. They were those mini-sized LLBean backpacks that preschoolers use.) Anyway, it was hard, and bordered at times on child abuse, especially since we stopped to pee in the woods before we were even done driving and I chose what looked like a great spot -- right smack on top of a bee hive. The bees were not appreciative, and came out to let me know, so I started the trip with about 12 bee stings covering my butt cheeks.

To try to take our minds off the pain and burden, my sister and I started collecting toads. We collected 27 in total, all of whom we named, and also collected urine samples from all 27 before letting them go. (Did I mention that it's a defense mechanism for toads to release a gush of pee when they feel they're being attacked? One that's particularly effective on humans, I might add.) It was, in a word, awesome.

I noticed this personifying tendency resurge on one of the first days I took Hoppers out for the class to observe. I was holding him up to get a good look at his ear holes before showing them to the kids, peering close into his face, when suddenly I had the urge to kiss him. I know my mom always told me you gotta kiss a lot of frogs to find a prince, but somehow I don't think this is what she had in mind. (In my defense, he's about the same size as my pet bird, who craves endless kisses.) I resisted, but did bring him a bit closer to my face and made some silly kissy noises while cooing his name, which my kids thought was hilarious.

Today we took Hoppers out again, and sat still and silent in a circle to watch what he would do. Well, lo and behold, who does he hop up to -- ME! A few kids piped up: "Look! Hoppers likes Mademoiselle!" "Nooo, he felt safe because I was sitting still. Or maybe he likes the color of my pants. Or he thinks I'm a good escape route to get away from all these people," I protested. But secretly, I was elated, and I couldn't help but croon to him: "Viens ici, Hoppers!" ("Come here, Hoppers!") Just then, he hopped up onto my leg. The kids gasped with delight -- Hoppers had listened to me!

Of course, I know Hoppers wasn't listening to me. But I still think he's pretty freakin' cool, and sometimes I like to imagine that maybe, just maybe, he thinks I'm cool, too. I'm almost considering asking the science director if I can take him home at the end of the year -- except I think Persil would be jealous.

P.S. Speaking of animals, check out Pip, the red-tailed hawk in Washington Square Park. Little dude is all of 2.5 weeks old, and he is HUGE. He's, like, the same size as a wild turkey, and he could probably swallow Persil whole. And this photo was taken 4 days ago!

Persil: Dead or Alive?

Longtime readers of this blog will recall that a year ago my family was split asunder for February vacation. My father and sister headed off on a cross-country ski trip entitled Camping Snobs 2010, which they neglected to invite my mother and I on. Hence, Mom and I planned our own trip, Rebellion 2010, which was a resounding success.

So successful, in fact, that this year my entire family is embarking on Rebellion 2011. That's right, Camping Snobs is officially dead, and since Mom and I are welcoming, non-exclusive types, we've decided to allow the former Snobbers to join us.

All of this leaves me with a familiar dilemma: Who will take care of the apple of my eye, my helpless little lovebird, Persil? Dreamy has become quite fond of Persil, and now insists that he be present when we Skype. He plays birdcalls to watch Persil's reaction, and when they shower together, I often hear peals of laughter coming from through the bathroom door. As soon as we enter my house, Dreamy asks, "It okay if I let P-Diddy out?" When we first started dating my sister expressed surprise when I mentioned that Dreamy liked Persil, and the Sensitive Bostonian's brother commented that, if he were Dreamy and he liked me, he'd like Persil, too. At this point, I think it's safe to say that Dreamy likes Persil for his own sake, not just mine.

So Dreamy immediately offered his services in caring for Persil when I'm gone. Then I had a conversation with his friend Brian, who pulled me aside and whispered to me, "You might want to leave Persil with me, not Dreamy. I wouldn't want anything to happen to the little guy."

So, is Dreamy responsible enough to keep my bird alive and happy? In his defense, he did successfully turtlesit over the summer, and as far as I know the turtle in question, Franklin, is still alive and healthy. Moreover, a couple of weeks ago, when I got the flu, I asked Dreamy to feed Persil one night when I felt so exhausted it seemed impossible. But as I was heading into my room, I got worried: Would Dreamy remember? I turned around and filled his bowl, only to berate myself for my lack of trust when Dreamy poked his head into my room as I donned my pajamas to ask where his food was.

On the other hand, this weekend I asked Dreamy if he'd mind waiting till after I showered before I heated up our leftover boeuf bourguignon Valentine's dinner for lunch. He answered, "Get in the shower! I can heat it up, silly." I followed his instructions, telling myself there was no reason to feel nervous, only to emerge a half hour later to a merrily boiling "stew" that was no longer quite so stew-y, with at least an inch of boeuf glued to the bottom of the pan. "Oops," Dreamy said, "I got involved in my work and forgot about it." Will he get involved in something and forget about Persil??

Nonetheless, Dreamy is my boyfriend, and if I'm going to do this thing I'll have to trust him at some point. So I've decided to entrust little Persil to him, and to tell Brian that I think he can handle it, although I'd love to use Brian's birdsitting services at a later date. And maybe I'll send a few text message reminders.

'Cuz seriously, if he kills my bird, I will be PISSED.

In which Dreamy develops a taste for bird excrement

Dreamy and I have been spending a lot of time together. When we're at my house, that means that Dreamy also spends a lot of time with my pet lovebird, Persil, since wherever I am is usually where Persil likes to be (and the same could be said of Dreamy). Luckily for me, they've taken a shine to each other. Dreamy doesn't mind the occasional bite, and has taken to calling Persil a variety of nicknames, including P-dawg, P-money, and Perster. When he arrives at my place, his first stop after kissing me hello is Persil's cage, where he stops to pat him and inquire how he's doing.

However, there is one aspect of Persil's personality that Dreamy is not a fan of, and it is Persil's fondness for pooping. "Boy, you sure do love to poop!" he exclaims each time a new little green slime appears, in a voice that strains to be cheerful. Or: "Whoa, I just put my arm around you and got Persil poop all over my fingers!" (After my computer, Persil's favorite spot to poop is on my shoulder.) Lovebirds poop on average once every 15 minutes; I haven't timed him on a regular enough basis to say for sure, but my unscientific estimate is that Persil poops 3 times more than the average lovebird. Dreamy tries to be nice about it, but he's clearly a bit amazed at how blase I am about all the poop.

I know, it does sound gross, and sometimes it is. But bear in mind that lovebird poops are less gross than almost any other animal. They aren't brown, they're a pretty combination of green and white. They don't smell at all. They're tiny. They're easily cleaned up. And, the pee is included so you only have to deal with one bodily emission!

A couple of weeks ago, I gave Dreamy a French press since he was in need of a new coffee maker. Because he's a bit clueless in the kitchen, he decided to give it a test run at my house while I was there to give him instructions. I was showering and getting dressed as this was happening, and every 30 seconds or so he'd call out a question: "How much coffee should I put in?" "Is this enough?" "Should I pack it down?" "How long should I let it sit for?"

Finally, the coffee was done, after he had let it sit for 20 minutes just to be on the safe side. I was about to come out to try a test sip when I heard a strange noise, like a groan. I had never heard a noise like that from Dreamy, so I immediately stuck my head out of the bedroom door. "What's wrong?"

"Persil pooped in the coffee," Dreamy replied, failing for once to maintain his cheerfulness. He pointed: there, perfectly situated in the center of the pour lip, was a glistening, coiled poop.

"It didn't go IN the coffee," I said, trying to salvage the situation. "Let's take the lid off, clean it really well, and put it back on."

"But it might have dripped down," Dreamy replied. It didn't look to me like it had, but realizing I was in danger of getting a reputation for being gross, I acquiesced, dumped the coffee out, and put Persil in his cafe for a time out while Dreamy made more.

The next morning, a bit to my amazement, when Dreamy woke up he proposed cooking breakfast for me. "Do you have eggs?" he asked, "I'll scramble them." To which I replied, dubiously, "Do you know how to scramble eggs?" Well, it turns out he does.

I warned him about not heating the nonstick pan too much, since it can emit fumes that are fatal to birds, but apparently I forgot to instruct him to put Persil away in his cage. Dreamy was happily scrambling the eggs up with a wooden spoon, Persil perched on his elbow, when it occurred to my little feathered baby that it would be interesting to go for a swim in the warm yellow liquid below. He took off and landed squarely in the eggs, face first. Dreamy yelled, reached into the hot eggs, and pulled him out before a second had passed. He handed him to me as though we had been rehearsing the move, while I stayed calm, turned the tap on, and put Persil's oily, egg-covered body under lukewarm water. When most of the egg was gone, I returned him, much subdued, to his cage, where he recovered on his heated perch.

Dreamy and I then turned our attention to our suspended breakfast. He pulled out a feather and what could have been a little piece of herb, or a poop. I told him to trash the eggs and offered to go buy more. Dreamy looked disheartened and uncertain. The, he squared his shoulders. "No," he said, "let's just eat it."

So that's what we did. We ate every bite of it, bird poop and all. And it was delicious.

Warm fuzzies (& a few sharp bities)

Since I moved into my new apartment three weeks ago, my life has felt insanely busy, but also pretty great. I've been taking lots of baths, spending time decorating, dropping hundreds of dollars at Ikea, and cooking my farm share veggies in my new, beautifully tiled kitchen.

The most unexpected change to occur was my bird's complete personality transformation. As I've written before, little Persil -- who I acquired in late July when he was six weeks old to replace my beloved bird Haricot, who flew off into the Maine woods in June and was never seen again -- has been a bit standoffish at times. I don't know if it's that there's more light here, or more space, or that he doesn't have to live in fear of being eaten by my roommate's copious pets, but he has now become extremely cuddly and sweet with me, as evidenced by the photos I've been taking:

The new, improved Persil nibbles lovingly on my nostril

There have been times when I've wondered if I rushed into buying Persil, and if he'll ever be able to fill the huge void left on Haricot's heated perch. It looks like I don't have to worry about that anymore. My worries these days are more along the lines of how I should best deal with the copious amount of bird poop falling under my computer keys and if Persil might misjudge the force of his beak and rip a hole in my nostril, or lip, or earlobe, or whatever part of my body he's currently focused on. (I'm not sure if he is a bit bitey because he still feels insecure with me or because he doesn't realize how strong his beak is, but I'm confident it will taper off eventually. It did with Haricot.)

No sharp bities whatsoever were around on Wednesday, when I had a long, seven hour afternoon/evening of parent teacher conferences. I was a little nervous going into them, as other teachers had warned me that the parents can be a bit demanding. But my experience was the exact opposite. Parent after parent showered me with praise, told me that their kids love me and talk about me all the time, that they're amazed by how quickly their children are learning, and asked what they can do to support me. It may never happen again that I'll get such an amazing class and have such unanimous support, but I'm enjoying every minute of it while it lasts.

Negotiations

Last week, the Sensitive Bostonian's Brother (SBB) went on a date with a woman he had been out with several times before. He had enjoyed their previous dates and they had a nice dinner together, so he was surprised when, toward the end of the evening, she brought up the fact that he had been 15 minutes late (he called ahead of time to ask if they could change the time of the date). To her, this meant that he wasn't that interested in her.

Now, if you know SBB, you know that this does not mean anything of the sort. He's ALWAYS 15 minutes (or more) late; it's just part of who he is. Nonetheless, this woman did not appreciate his lateness, and the date ended badly when he told her that he was not ready to be exclusive with her (he had a date scheduled for the following evening).

Lateness and unreliability are ubiquitous in our culture, and it can be frustrating for those of us who do not possess these traits, so I can partially understand where she was coming from (even though I think she was wrong to take it so personally). Some people can accept it, others can't. Last weekend, Slinky and I got drinks in the early part of the evening, and later Dreamy was coming to meet up with me at the same bar. Throughout the evening, I got a series of texts from Dreamy postponing his impending arrival that ended with the comment, "Thank god you're so easygoing!" Slinky was not feeling so easygoing, though, and finally said, "I could not date Dreamy. This would drive me crazy." However, she also liked him immediately upon meeting him, and sent me a quick text right afterward to tell me he is a cutie pie (very true).

Of course, there are many levels of unreliability, and the fact that Dreamy always lets me know when he'll be late usually makes it acceptable to me. Still, there are times when I feel frustrated. When we talked a couple of weeks ago about trying to see each other more, Dreamy said that he'd like to talk sometimes during the week when we are both too busy to hang out. My phone did not ring for several days afterward, so I finally ended an email to him with a postscript: "Llamame!" He texted to tell me he was out to dinner with friends and could he call me around 9:30. I said fine, but I'd be going to bed early. Apparently we have different definitions of "early," because when he finally left his dinner at 11:15 it did not occur to him that I might already be asleep, and he awoke me from a deep slumber that I had already been in for nearly an hour and a half. Also this weekend, Dreamy had promised to spend the day Sunday helping me start moving into my new apartment, but midway through the week he realized that he had a full-day soccer tournament planned and had to be there at 8 in the morning. I mean, doesn't he have a calendar??

Dreamy and I are in the phase of our relationship now where we're learning about each other and negotiating how we interact. He knows now that if I say I'm going to bed early he shouldn't call after 10; I know that when he says he'll be somewhere at 7 it probably means 7:30. And I'm realizing that if I want to be in a relationship with him I'll have to accept a certain level of unreliability and not let it frustrate me. Luckily, though, the unreliability is more than compensated for by his many other wonderful qualities: He's affectionate, constantly saying adorable things to me like "I feel really lucky to be with someone who is so kind and sweet;" is generous -- he brought me a beautiful scarf from his recent business trip across the world; he took good care of me this weekend when I had the sniffles and a sore throat; he wants to spend lots of time with me, and we were together for almost the whole weekend with me this weekend and last (minus today of course, for his tournament); and is smart and thoughtful.

Yesterday Persil gave his stamp of approval, too: Dreamy and I were kissing, and Persil flew over and landed on his toe. Now I know for sure he's a good one.

Breakthroughs

There are two relationships in my life that I have had questions about recently. I would like both of them to develop further, but I've worried that neither of them are moving in that direction -- or moving anywhere. After a lot of patience, I had two breakthroughs this past weekend with each of them.

The first is my 97-year-old Hospice patient, Celine. She has Alzheimer's and, of course, she's 97, so my expectations of our relationship aren't quite what they'd normally be. Still, I sometimes wonder if there's really any point in my being there; she obviously enjoys it, and we sit and chat together and have fun, but does she remember the visit five minutes after I've left? Does she have any idea of who I am week to week? If I miss a week, does she notice? After all, she sometimes forgets to go to the bathroom, or how to put on her shoes, or that her sisters have died.

Yesterday we were sitting and talking as usual, as Celine repeated many of the same phrases I've heard so many times -- "I'm so glad you dropped by!" "I think these rings are on the wrong fingers. I'll switch them," "You're my big doll. I call you my big doll," and "I wonder what happened to my white shoes?" among them. Then, out of the blue, she turned to me and asked, "And how has school been? You're a teacher, right?"

It was amazing. You could have knocked me over with a feather, even if at the same time as she asked this question, she was eating a cheese doodle and commenting, "My sandwich is quite tasty." The mind certainly works in mysterious ways. Still, it's good to know that part of her is there listening to me, some of the time at least. When I left, she clasped both my hands in hers and said, as she's said many times before, "Please don't forget to come back and visit." For the first time, I believed that she'd miss me if I did forget.

The second relationship I've worried about is with my lovebird, Persil. Poor Persil has huge shoes to fill (and such small feet to fill them!). Everyone knows that my former lovebird, Haricot, was the most amazing, lovable pet ever. I used to leave his cage door open at night so that in the morning he could fly to bed with me and we could cuddle; he'd take naps inside my nightshirt, curled up on my belly. It took a very, very long time for Haricot to come out of his shell and be the sweet little parrot he was, so I knew I'd have to be patient with Persil, but there have been moments since I got Persil in late July when I felt like he wasn't making ANY progress at all. He actually was making progress -- he would eat millet when I held it up to him, he'd let me put my face close to his, and he'd step up onto a stick for me -- but I never got any indication that he LIKED me. It's like we were living parallel lives in the same small bedroom.

After I got back from the nursing home yesterday, I was sitting on my bed, typing on my computer -- just as I am doing now -- when Persil hopped up to me. For a few seconds I didn't even notice. In the back of my mind I was thinking, oh, here comes Haricot. Then, very tentatively, he came a little closer, and finally put one toe up onto my keyboard. As soon as I lifted a finger toward him, he stepped back, so I just kept all my fingers on the keys. He stepped a millimeter closer, leaned down, and gingerly nibbled on my finger. A few seconds later and he had flown back to his usual hangout, the windowsill.

Today when I came home and opened his cage door, I hoped he'd come over to me again. But he didn't; he's back on his windowsill, chirping away as if yesterday never happened. But now that it's happened once I know it will happen again. I just have to be really, really patient.

Sleeping Dogs (& Sleeping Birds)

Holy cow. I wanted to write a blog post last night but then I stepped out of my room for five minutes, stepped back in and couldn't find Persil. Thirteen hours later, I was STILL looking for him without having slept a wink, and finally found him hiding under a towel on the back of my door underneath about a million jackets, scarves and other miscellany. He's now having a looooooong time out in his cage to think about his behavior. (Update 3 hours later: His time out is over, I opened the door to his cage and he refuses to come out. Ingrate.)

Anyhow. After I'm done hyperventilating, I'll go back to reflecting on what I was thinking about before the shit hit the fan, which is my exes. Yesterday, I became Facebook friends with my very first boyfriend, the Modern Jewish Boy (so named because at one point he was reading a book entitled "The Modern Jewish Man"). I was in love with him from age 12 to 16, and we dated twice, once when I was 13 and again when I was 16. Both times he eventually lost interest, but rather than tell me that, he just faded away, letting more and more time pass before he returned my phone calls and being distant when we did talk. (Actually, I suspect that depression may have played some role in this behavior. But maybe that's just me making excuses.)

I still have a pretty big soft spot for him, and I was excited to see him on Facebook. I immediately went to his page and started to write a note saying hi, how's life, I'd love to get a beer with you sometime, I often think of you, etc. Before I hit "post" I glanced down at his page and read the updates he had written in his one day on Facebook. I had the same reaction I had the last time I saw him, which is: Oh, yeah. He's totally immature and exactly the same as he was when we were 13, and 16, and he's probably always going to be that way. Better to let sleeping dogs lie. I erased my friendly note.

This reminder caused me to reflect that, in the end, ALL my boyfriends have kinda been jerks. Not that they went out of their way to mistreat me (though I would say that La Moustache did), but they didn't treat me with the consideration I deserve because they were too wrapped up in themselves and their own needs. This is a worrisome thought. Do I go for jerks? Is that why I emailed the cute guy on OKC who sounded totally self-centered in his profile? I know I used to like the bad boys when I was in grade school, but I thought I was past that stage; have I moved on to the adult version of the same disease?

There is, however, one partial exception to my jerky ex-boyfriend rule: l'Artista, my painting teacher who I met when I was 18 and he was 28, who after my immediate family was probably the most formative figure in my life. I can honestly say that I would not be the person I am now if I had not met him. Yes, he should have let me go sooner than he did -- actually, he didn't exactly "let" me go, it was more like I had to claw my way out of that relationship, hanging up on him when he called, putting a block on my email, etc. It often felt like I was cutting the umbilical cord. So, in a way, he was a jerk too; but he did really, really care about me, and a huge part of him really wanted to be with me. He just couldn't do it.

I got the following email from him a couple of days ago:

Dearest Heathen,
It's always a pleasure to hear from you.
Prezzemolo [Parsley in Italian] is very cute. Be good with Heathen! You must be very happy now to have him at home.
And your vacation? What will the two of you do?
I am traveling in Germany, working a bit, it's not really vacation vacation.
I hope to hear from you soon.
Hugs.
l'Artista

Longtime readers of my blog may remember that, in an epic moment of bad timing, l'Artista asked me if we could be more involved in each others' lives at the very moment when I was breaking up with La Moustache. This prompted a very snarky response from me. I thought that my breakup with l'Artista would be the hardest breakup of my life, but that did not turn out to be the case. Hearing from l'Artista at that particular moment was a painful reminder that when I met Moustache I believed him to be the antithesis of l'Artista in so many ways, and I turned out to be very, very wrong.

Now I'm wondering again if I should perhaps let l'Artista back into my life a little bit, and maybe have a phone conversation with him once in a while. I've often considered calling him, even while I was with Moustache, and my friend Miami Nice always squelched the idea (feel free to squelch it again, Miami). I think I could handle it at this point without opening up a big old emotional can of worms, but I could be wrong. He feels like such an important part of my past, and I'd like to reconnect with that, but is it always better to let sleeping dogs lie?

Statistics

I picked up Persil this morning and I've been holed up in my room with him ever since, talking gently to him and trying to make him feel as comfortable as possible. He started out very sleepy, then gradually woke up and emerged from his cage; now he's beginning to seem more comfortable, though still nervous of me. It's been a few hours, and at this point I'm beginning to get a bit cabin feverish, so I think I'll head out and take a walk soon. But, in the meantime, I took the opportunity to look through my email history on Match and OkCupid and run the numbers. I came up with some interesting statistics. Here's what my OkCupid history looks like, going back to January (sorry if the table is weird, turns out it's hard to make tables in Blogger):

Men I contacted	Responses	Dates	Men who contacted me	Men I responded to	Dates
23	10	1	78	14	9

So, out of the 23 men I contacted, I only dated one! HOWEVER, that one was the Brazilian, who was arguably the most promising of all my dates; and, I'm looking forward to a second Heathen-initiated date in 2 3/4 weeks with Dreamy (though if I've learned anything from online dating, it's not to count my chickens before they're hatched, so I'll count that as a date if and when it happens). Still, I did much better on OKC just waiting for the men to contact me, filtering through them to find the good ones, and then replying. In fact, out of the 10 people who responded to my emails on OKC, half of them dropped the ball when I emailed them a second time!

It's a bit more difficult to see patterns on Match because emails get deleted automatically after 30 days, so I can only paint a picture of what's happened for me in the past month. Still, it's strikingly different:

Men I contacted	Responses	Dates	Men who contacted me	Men I responded to	Dates
9	4	2	25	3	1

I got a similar reply rate as on OkCupid, BUT the men who replied on Match followed through, and a much higher percentage resulted in a date. On the other hand, I did less well on Match with the men who contacted me.

What I take from this is that there are in fact more interesting people on OKC, but the men on Match are less flakey and POSSIBLY more open to female initiative (though I don't feel convinced of that last part; I suspect their lack of response is more due to the flakiness of OkCupidians). And, obviously, that I'm a huge nerd.

Finally, one last factoid: 100% of my OkCupid dates paid for our first date. 0% of my Match dates paid (we split the bill).

Anyone else have thoughts about this?

PS Here's my bird. He really likes hats, just like me.

Countdown

I've still been maintaining a lively correspondence with Dreamy from OkCupid. Unfortunately, he is going out of town for a while, so I have to wait THREE WEEKS before meeting the man who Slinky has already taken to referring to as my "future husband" (yesterday she started a conversation about what kind of bridesmaid dress she should wear). I know I said I hadn't been this excited for a date since Le Canadien, but I'm changing that: I haven't been this excited for a date EVER.

Can I make it? Luckily, I have a few distractions, including a young, impressionable, cute-but-I-see-no-future-in-it 27-year old from Match whose name is the same as the English version of La Moustache's (that right there makes him non-boyfriend material). But he seems to adore me and be at my beck and call, which is nice. Then there's my little lovebird, Persil, who I'm picking up tomorrow! I also have a week-long vacation coming up next week in Maine. Lastly, I just ran into good ol' Babe in the Woods while out doing errands, who told me to stop by his new office sometime and we'll hit up the Sam Adams Brewery together.

Unfortunately, a little Facebook stalking after this random encounter revealed that BITW has a girlfriend, too! What is WITH the flirtatious men who tell me all about their lives, show me photos of their vacations, etc. and fail to mention the significant other?? Is this just because men are sleazebags? Is it possible that the topic just never came up, or is that a ridiculously naive idea?

Smelling the roses

Life is pretty good recently. It's summer vacation. My new little lovebird, who I've tentatively taken to referring to as Persil (silent L), will be coming home with me in 10 days or so. I've got money in the bank. I have an interview tomorrow for a job whose description is awfully close to the dream job I was offered last summer, then un-offered a couple of days before school began. And they've already told me I'm their top candidate -- touch wood. Even if I don't get that, I'm pretty sure I can finagle my way into a maternity leave position in the same French immersion program in a local school. I'm having a summer fling with a handsome, funny Canadian, and I'm dating other guys too.

However, I've realized lately that I have a tendency to be my own worst enemy. My ex-boyfriend, La Moustache, screwed me over royally last summer. Ever since then, I feel like every time I meet someone I like, I clench my stomach and steel myself for disappointment. I'm like a mollusk, ready to close up tight at the first sign of trouble. But no one else has the power to hurt me the way La Moustache did; these are just guys I'm dating. I'm not in love with any of them, and they are most certainly NOT irreplaceable, as Beyonce would say.

I had a mollusk moment when Le Canadien cut our date short yesterday. It made me worry that he's using me for the physical aspects of our relationship. In hindsight, though, there was really no reason for me to freak out as I did. He needs to find an apartment pronto; he is stressed about work, and he told me as soon as he arrived at my house yesterday that he'd need to take care of these things later on. Nonetheless, we spent a lovely day together. He gives me every indication that he likes me. He always responds quickly to my emails. He gives me lots of compliments. In his car yesterday on the way to the lake he told me he'd pick out music for us to listen to that he thought I'd like, and he was right -- I did like it. He listens to me talk about how cute Persil is, and asks to see photos of him. And, if he does disappoint, it will not break my heart. He is not my boyfriend, and he is never going to be my husband.

It doesn't come naturally to me, especially after my horrible experience with Moustache last year, but I'm determined to lighten up. Please remind me the next time I forget.

The new bean

I was walking down the street with my sister, Ms. Swamp, last week, discussing plans for August. We were talking about the possibility of going to visit our grandmother in Idaho, and I said the first thing that popped into my mind: "But who will take care of Haricot?"

"Umm, Haricot is dead. Or maybe he's with the birds in Maine," my sister responded.

"Oops, I don't mean Haricot... I mean the new Haricot. Haricot Junior," I answered.

I need a name for my new little beanie so I don't keep accidentally calling him Haricot. He has his own identity, his own little personality. So far he seems most characterized by his babyish uncertainty; when I put my finger in front of him and say "Step up!" he looks at it, confused about what he should do. He flaps his wings and tries to fly, not totally successfully. Haricot never had a moment of uncertainty like that, partly because he was older and understood his body better.

I'm thinking that I'll continue the trend of vegetable/food names, possibly in Italian this time. Here are the submissions so far:

Cipolla or Cipollotto -- onion in Italian, my ex-boyfriend l'Artista's idea
Pomme -- apple in French, Slinky's idea
Persil -- parsley in French; cute, but might be too hard to say (that was always an issue with Haricot)
Pruneau -- the French word for prune, Le Canadien's idea
Fagiolo -- the Italian word for Haricot; too much?
Piccola -- l'Artista's old nickname for me, meaning 'little' in Italian; too sentimental?

Anyone have a preference among these or their own idea? Here's a photo to inspire you:

Awww. Isn't he sweet? He's kinda looking like a Parsley/Persil to me right now, despite the difficult pronunciation. Two weeks till adoption day...

Finding a modality that works for me

During my drive up to Maine on Friday for the holiday weekend, I found myself pondering the events of the last couple of weeks and months, and wondering if perhaps I need to change my approach. Here is a sampling of my thoughts:

• I spent four days crying almost nonstop after I lost my bird, to the point where my contacts became so salt-encrusted that I couldn't see. Even as I was bawling over my little green featherball, I could feel that I was really upset over so much more.
  
• I got my knickers all twisted over a chubby guy with copious backhair who I made out with a few times in March. Why did I care so much?
• Dating has brought me frustration and bitterness, but no husbands.
  
• I spent Friday morning drinking bloody marys, watching the Netherlands/Brazil soccer game and flirting with the cute bartender with a tattoo of JFK on his wrist, who commiserated with me on my loss of Haricot by telling me how sad he was when his pet python escaped.
  
• I dismissed the cute, nice French Canadian who is the only good communicator of all the men I've dated since my breakup because he told me he's not looking for a wife at this time.

A piece of advice that my neighbor, the Cat Lady, gave me several months ago popped into my mind. "Maybe," she said (she prefaces all her advice this way because, as a single lesbian in her fifties, she doesn't feel totally qualified to give me advice), "you should just relax and have fun. You're young and attractive. Just see guys casually, and don't look at it as auditioning to find your next boyfriend."

When my sister, Ms. Swamp, began online dating a couple of years ago, her goal was to find a husband, and she did. Well, they're not quite married yet, but to all intents and purposes she did. As I sifted through my feelings, I wondered if perhaps what I need right now is not a husband, but a Mr. White Pants (or several Mr. White Pants). Pants was the guy I dated for four months after I broke up with my ex-ex-boyfriend, l'Artista. He took me to the opera and drove me around Manhattan in his convertible and bought me nice dinners and generally entertained me and distracted me, and when I was ready to be emotionally connected to someone again, I moved on.

So I'm going to try the Cat Lady's approach. I'm just going to relax and enjoy the summer and give myself time to get over my traumas of the past year. I sent Le Canadien a message and asked if he wants to get a beer, and within three hours we had a date set up, because that's the kind of communicator he is. And I'll probably swing by and visit my bartender this afternoon to watch the game and maybe hear more about his python.

When to give up

I'm going up to Maine again this weekend, and am trying to decide if I should bring Haricot's cage back to Boston with me or leave it there. This seemingly simple decision has taken on symbolic significance, since if he is still alive and wandering the forests of Maine, his cage would be a familiar sight that he might gravitate toward. Recently neighbors of my parents thought they might have heard him, and his cage was moved to their yard on the off chance that he was hanging around their house (turned out to be a false alarm). On the other hand, I don't know if I'll be going back up to Maine before the end of July, when I'm scheduled to adopt a new baby lovebird.

My new baby, who I went to visit last week

I belong to a lovebird forum, where people have been very understanding and helpful with dealing with Haricot's loss. On the forum, they counsel people not to give up on finding lost birds; parrots are so friendly that they are often taken in by new families, and are sometimes returned to their owners years later. No matter what, they have counseled me, you shouldn't give up hope. Not only that, but you need to keep actively looking, posting signs and checking local listings. One woman had three parrots stolen from her home last summer, and eventually was able to recover two of them. She is still looking for the third.

I am not sure that this is a modality that works for me. While I respect other people's willingness to keep hoping and searching for months or even years, for me this would make it difficult to mourn and move on. It seems reminiscent of the cocoon of denial I have been learning about in my Hospice training: acceptance allows one to make the emotional adjustments necessary to wrap up one's life or, for the family, to keep living life.

When I get up to Maine this afternoon, I plan to comb the area again to see if I can find any trace of Haricot. I will keep posting ads on Craigslist, and check to make sure my missing bird posters are still up. But, come Monday, I think I'll be bringing Haricot's cage back to Boston, and start thinking of it as my new baby's cage. Who knows, maybe if I do find Haricot they could one day share the cage and be friends. But in the meantime I am looking forward to bringing my new baby home.

La Moustache Speaks

Over the past 7 months, since he took off in his Land Cruiser to travel 'round the world, my ex-boyfriend La Moustache and I have been in fairly frequent contact. However, our emails have been of the did-you-get-my-car-insurance-check, when-are-you-going-to-file-my-tax-return pragmatic variety, with the occasional p.s. I hate you (from me). Oh, and there was that one time when he offered to give me money if I would be nice to him. Last week, I felt compelled to inform him of the disappearance of Haricot, the lovebird we bought together 2 1/2 years ago, who was the apple of Moustache's eye. Shortly thereafter, his reply arrived:

Heathen,

Thanks for letting me know. I am so sorry and sad about it. I also imagine how sad you must be, and that affect me even more. I am so sorry with this bad luck, in addition that I hurted you as well. You are right, best is to think that he is having good time in the forest, where all bird belongs, I imagine. He was a good friend to us, and he will stay in my heart. Life is very hard, and I am sorry I made it harder for you.

-La Moustache

Two days later he added:

I know you are pissed at me, but I would really like to know how everything is going for you. And i can also share with my parents what happenning in your life. I know you hate me, but often I miss you.

As part of my training to become a Hospice volunteer, I watched a video recently about a young child whose parents were separated who died. Though the wife had left the family and behaved abominably, when the child passed -- and yes, the whole thing was filmed -- you could see the connection the parents shared because of their common love of their child.

I can't compare the loss of Haricot to the loss of a five-year-old child, but on some level I felt the same thing with Moustache when we lost our bird. It's been a tumultuous week, and everyone has been very understanding and empathetic; still, I can't help but feel that the one person who truly understands, because he loved Haricot as much as I did, is Moustache. My first instinct was to write back and say, "I miss you too, and I wish you were here."

Thankfully, I'm wise enough at this point to not reply to messages like this immediately. La Moustache has some sympathetic aspects to his personality, and that was a very kind condolence message he sent me. Of course he has good sides to him; otherwise I wouldn't have spent three years with him. We don't live in a fairy tale, and people aren't completely good or completely evil -- they're complicated. And in addition to being empathetic and kind at times, Moustache is also a gigantic a**hole who was utterly dishonest and left me at the worst possible moment of my life without ever being upfront about what he was doing.

After thinking about it for a couple of days, I wrote back and told him exactly what I thought: that I was completely shocked to learn that he missed me. That I had the impression that he wanted only to put as many miles between us as possible, and to burn all bridges. That any hatred I feel toward him is purely a reaction to the way he treated me. And finally, if his parents want to know how I am, they can feel free to get in touch or ask Moustache's uncle.

No response so far. Not that I'm holding my breath -- I don't think the internet connection in Ethiopia is all that great.

Rebound bird

Every time I go through the breakup of a serious relationship, I end up engaging in some foolhardy rebound activity, and then regretting it. I am a firm believer that one should take at least 6 months to get over a relationship before starting a new one, and even when I've thought I was just having fun it has often ended painfully for me.

Now I find myself in new territory, wondering: How much time do I need to recover from the loss of a pet before getting a new one? A pet isn't like a boyfriend; I can't just get rid of it if I realize it was an impulsive acquisition. Almost from the moment I lost Haricot last weekend I started wondering whether I should get a new bird if he didn't turn up. At the same time, I was thinking, "I hope if I get a new bird it's a boy, just like Haricot. I don't want to have to deal with eggs! I hope he likes bananas like Haricot. It would be great if he's not too horny, like Haricot." (Some male birds are so eager to hump anything they can get their little claws on that they end up going bald in certain parts of their bodies. Haricot did like to engage in the occasional roll in the hay with a dirty tissue, but only in moderation.)

This is quite a contrast with my boyfriend rebounds, because usually I'm eager to find someone who is completely different from my most recent breakup. If he's slender, I find someone muscular. If he's funny and outgoing, I find someone shy. Then I get really excited about these new qualities.

The difference is that Haricot was pretty much the perfect bird and never caused me any sorrow or anger, so I really just want a replacement Haricot, rather than a new bird. I've even thought about what I would call the new bird, and wondered if it would be too much to call him Haricot. Green Bean's only negative qualities were that he pooped every 15 minutes and chewed holes in paper and sometimes cloth, but my chances of finding a lovebird who doesn't do those things are slim to nil.

It's probably best for me to wait to get a new bird until I am ready to appreciate his own personality and attributes, and won't resent any differences from my missing baby. Besides, I haven't given up hope on finding Haricot yet. Nonetheless, I checked Craigslist the other day, and found someone an hour outside Boston whose lovebirds had babies recently. They won't be ready for adoption until the end of July, and if I want one then, it's mine. So, is five weeks enough time to recover? Or will it be a rebound bird?

Lost

I loaded up the car mid-afternoon on Saturday to head north to Maine for a quick weekend visit in order to attend the wedding of an old family friend. Usually I put Haricot, my pet lovebird, in the passenger seat next to me, but I decided on the off chance I had an accident he'd be safer in the back, so I buckled his cage in behind me. That meant that I couldn't pet him and interact with him the way I normally do when I drive, but if he stood in the right spot in his cage and I craned my neck just a bit, I could see him in the rearview mirror. Every few minutes I'd glance back and say, "Haricot, you okay back there?" and he'd hop to that corner and chirp at me.

I plugged my ipod in and listened to a few podcasts as I drove, sweating in the early summer heat. One was of Irene Pepperberg, a scientist who does research with parrots, most famously an African gray named Alex. I listened to her description of how Alex helped her through her divorce, and then her devastation when Alex died, and I teared up a bit. "Are you enjoying this, too?" I asked Haricot, and he chirped, cheerful as always, but I wished there were some parrot noises in the broadcast so he would know it was a story about parrots.

After we arrived, I opened his cage and we napped in the living room -- or rather, I napped and Haricot hopped energetically around me. A few goldfinches flew by outside, and I wondered if Haricot would like to spend time with them if he could; probably, I thought. He's very social, and while I've never had the chance to see him with other birds, I bet he'd love them.

My mom and I decided eventually to go for a walk, and I left Haricot with my dad, who happily told me he'd love to spend some time with his grandbird. But when we got back Dad was waiting outside for us with a worried look on his face: "I think Haricot got out. The door blew open, and I can't find him," he reported.

For about ten minutes, I was certain he'd turn up quickly. I thought he was probably somewhere in the house, sitting quietly, waiting for me to come home. When I didn't find him, my state of mind reversed completely, and I became convinced that he was gone forever. I didn't want to keep looking, I just wanted to curl up in a ball. We kept looking anyway, all three of us, but not constantly; it felt so pointless, with the thousands of trees he could be in, and the many areas that are impenetrable by foot.

I imagine that Haricot is probably scared by himself in the forest, or wherever he is. He is probably hungry and thirsty. Still, I hope that he is enjoying himself, at least a little bit. I hope that he is making friends with the goldfinches and other birds, having conversations with them as he occasionally did from the safety of our apartment. I hope that he is finding lots of interesting leaves to chew on, and perches that are higher than anything he's ever imagined.

Last kiss...

My Little Green Man Repellent

Some girls get pet dogs because it helps them meet men. They have to go to the park to walk the dog, and there they meet men who are also walking their dogs; plus, guys (some guys, anyway) think it's a turn-on when a girl has a dog. Dogs are man magnets.

My pet, Green Bean the lovebird, is the opposite: a man repellent. He doesn't help me meet men. In fact, I think if he had his druthers it would be just the two of us cuddling in my bedroom for the rest of his life. He hates it when I go out; heck, he doesn't even like it when I leave my bedroom to go take a shower. He's happiest when he's snuggled inside my shirt or in the crook of my neck, and if he's anywhere else he is trying to get to one of those places. The other night I went to opening night of Sex and the City and didn't get home until after 10, and he was so upset that he bit me, hard. He had to have a time out in his cage to calm down.

I've only invited one man to my house since moving to Boston: the Brazilian. I was excited for him to meet Green Bean. Bean, however, was not excited to meet him, and immediately attacked him. It was amazing to watch – he looked like a tiny, green bundle of fury, lashing out with his sharp little beak at the Brazilian's outstretched fingers. I've gotten used to leaving his cage door open most of the time when I'm home, and when the Brazilian was here, in order to get some “alone” time, I closed him in his cage. Unused to this treatment, Bean protested with sharp squawks, and spent his time racing back and forth in front of the cage door like a little prisoner trying to get out. It was not exactly romantic.

Another downside to Green Bean is that he poops constantly, every 15 minutes or so. As long as I'm paying attention, it's not a big deal; I scoop it up with a tissue and it doesn't leave a trace. But Bean and I spend a lot of time together, and embarrassing as it is, sometimes I lose track of some fecal matter and end up leaving my house adorned with it. This happened a couple of weeks ago, when I was going on a date with a man who is a closeted homosexual (that's my theory, anyway). Midway through our date he reached out and plucked what he probably thought was a bit of green lint off my sleeve. He looked mildly surprised to discover that it was hard and crumbly, but hopefully he didn't realize what it was.

Sometimes I feel resentful that I ended up with Green Bean. I never would have gotten him if I had thought I'd be taking care of him on my own. La Moustache did offer to take him, but it seemed a bit ridiculous – if I'd let that happen he would now be in Tanzania, in a cage inside a Land Cruiser. Not a good life for a bird.

However. Bean is the most utterly adorable pet I have ever met, and most of the time he more than compensates for his downsides. He is like a teeny tiny dog in how completely faithful and adoring he is. I finally watched the new(ish) Pixar film recently, Up, starring Kevin the gigantic female bird. She reminded me of Green Bean: I'm pretty sure that if he were twice my size he would pick me up and cuddle me exactly the way Kevin cuddles the boy in the film. Plus Bean is a huge fan of chocolate, just like Kevin, and they share the same goofy enthusiasm.

Despite being a man repellent, he is awfully adorable. And hopefully he won't repel the right man.

Ring My Bell

I had a few moments (okay, hours) of obsessive self-doubt this week, during which I became convinced that I would never hear from my Brazilian beau again. This despite the fact that he told me that he wants to help me trim Green Bean's wings next time he needs clipping, go for a picnic when it gets a little warmer, do some experiments to determine why my car keeps growing a pond in the backseat, and has sent me several text messages since I last saw him. AND I'm not even sure if I like like him yet, and we've only gone out three times. To help me through this obsessive moment, I turned to several girlfriends, who assured me that everything will be fine one way or the other, and I need to lighten up; which of course I knew already, but still it helps to hear it from a friend.

One of my dating gurus, Li'l JC, had an additional piece of advice. She objected to my preferred mode of communication, the text message, and told me (or rather her handsome new boyfriend told me, through her) to “nut up and call him.”

To say that I am allergic to phone calls is to put it mildly. I frequently daydream of throwing my cell phone into a body of water, possibly the pond in my car since it's so conveniently nearby, especially when it is ringing. It is not unusual for me to notice with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I have sixteen voicemail messages that have piled up, or more. I would rather send an e-mail than make a phone call, rather receive a text message than listen to a voicemail. Besides, it can be stressful for people whose first language is not English to talk on the phone in English, as I well know from many experiences on the other side of the fence. (My new squeeze's English is astonishingly good, maybe even better than mine; still, his accent makes mundane statements like “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back,” sound impossibly romantic.)

The strange terror that filled me at the thought of picking up my phone and calling the boy who 48 hours before I was comfortably recounting my life story to hearkened back to an earlier moment of receiving romantic advice, nearly 20 years ago. I was eleven years old and in the fifth grade, and my dream had come true: my crush of the past six years had asked me, through a friend, to be his girlfriend (it was the old-school form of a text message). I had been in love with him since I first spotted him in soccer practice at age five, and had remained in the thrall of his black eyes, full lips and bad-boy reputation ever since. I raced home, eager to share the thrilling news with my sister. I could hardly believe this was really happening to me, and I thought that my whole life, from that point forward, was sure to be changed forever.

My sister was exuberant when I told her, but then gave me the advice: “If you want to have an open, communicative relationship, you have to call him and tell him you accept in person,” she counseled. I have no idea where my sister got this misplaced, weirdly precocious wisdom from; it would have been great advice if only I had been a college student instead of an elementary schooler. However, she was my big sister, and even though I would have preferred to jump into the ocean in mid-February than call him to accept his offer, I knew I had to follow it. After all, didn't I want an open, communicative relationship, fifth grade-style?

So I called and did the deed, and it was one of the most awkward conversations of my life. “Umm, hi, T? This is Heathen. So, I heard you wanted to go out with me? Well, yeah, that would be fine. Okay, bye.” It wasn't exactly an auspicious beginning for a healthy, communicative relationship. I can't recall exactly how long the relationship lasted, if it was two weeks or three, but I do recall that we did not speak for the duration of it, except once when it was my day to collect hot lunch tickets; when T got to the front of the line we mumbled “hi” to each other while studiously avoiding each others' gazes. After a few days of this torture, T's friend called me to break things off. No, he didn't even have the decency to call me himself to break up.

Well, sorry Li'l JC, but I have decided to disregard your advice. You can blame my sister. It's possible that my new love interest will become the most recent victim of the Disappearing Man Syndrome, but in the meantime, I'm working on diversifying my assets so I won't mind as much.