Ink on my hands and lovebirds on my brain

Trying to explain at work that I have a "thing for pen nibs" only made me sound stranger than I usually do. "You know? The pointy part at the bottom of a feather pen, like in movies? The part you dunk in the ink? Yeah. I love those. I could play with those all day."

"Why would you want to dunk it in the ink? Wouldn't it be better to use regular pens?"

"Because the ink gets EVERYWHERE! And that's GREAT!"

"Uh?"

"Right. Well. I collect them. Erm."

I mean, what can be more fun? More spontaneous? More messy?

Patterns and sad frogs HOORAY!

Now that the farmer's market is kaput for the season, I'll have to draw my own flowers. I'll miss you, Amish buddies.

Aw, it's a page of love birds. Not the breed, but the pun.

I rather hate literal lovebirds because those fuckers bite. We used to have two, Kate and Henry, but then one developed some kind of bird cancer and died. Then we had one and she (potentially he) sat alone in a cage and glared at us all the time and tried to attack me when I got close. No love there. Absolutely none.

The day when Kate (or Henry) eventually died, leaving us thankfully birdless, my brother and I let ourselves in the side door after school to encounter our babysitter in the kitchen. She was staring at us eerily and sadly in a way meant only one thing: death. (I’d seen this expression on TV right before a soap opera doctor declared somberly, “She didn’t survive the surgery.”)

“I hope it’s the bird,” I thought, “And not Mom or Dad or the dog.”

“Did the bird die?” I asked, fingers crossed behind my back.

“Yes,” she whispered, pointing back at the TV room.

“Okay,” I replied. Unphased. I think the babysitter was expecting more theatrics.

My little brother followed me to the cage, where the brightly green and red/pink creature was lying on its side, eyes wide open.

After a bit of discussion, I ascertained that our babysitter was not going to touch the thing, so I wound up using the thick gloves my dad used to feed it (I’m telling you: it was a violent monster, and even my six-foot-tall dad was afraid of it) to pick its hard, stiff little lump of a frame up and toss it into the trash can in the garage. The only other contact I’d had with the bird was when its beak was clenched tight on my finger, drawing blood. I’d always imagined Kate/Henry would be softer. (The concept of “rigor mortis” was foreign.)

Anyway, we never got another bird after that. Which is a-OK, because our dog was so much cooler, even though my brother was disappointed he couldn’t have a rabbit.

 

(Unlike my “Love” bird, my childhood dog never bit me, and I never had to deal with his corpse. A+ work, Buddy.)

I don’t know why that memory popped into my head. It’s pretty gruesome, actually. But there it is. Hope everyone enjoys their Tuesday regardless!