Indoor Camping: Fixing Up the Fixer-Upper

Tuesday, December 21, 2004

Parakeets

“Your ass is mine, you yellow piece of sh*t,” Charlie says as he presses his face against the parakeet cage. All things obnoxious originate with the General: screaming teenage girls ordering pizza after midnight on my credit card, eight loads of laundry a week, and pets. We may have originally been obnoxious and forced her to live in this hellhole, but we’re learning. We no longer act upon our ideas. We’re afraid if we did, we’d end up in another fixer.

Now if we could stop ourselves from acting upon the General’s ideas. Cheyenneh wanted a dog, so we found a beautiful one at the Humane Society. We’d take the dog out on a long walk every morning. She’d save up, come home and sh*t all over the carpet. We got rid of the carpet and we returned the dog.

We got a pretty blue parakeet instead. It doesn’t mess up unless someone trips and knocks over the cage. We still don’t have carpet.

“The parakeet is lonely,” the General said. “Jessi’s parents have three in a smaller cage.”

Sometimes it’s easier to give in rather than fight and then give in. We gave Cheyenneh a $20 and she came home with a little yellow companion for the happy blue parakeet. She opened the box and the new bird promptly came out and chomped on her thumb. It wouldn’t let go until she screamed and shook it off. Then it flew over to the once-happy blue bird and started pecking. It hasn’t stopped since.

“Oh, you have birds,” the pizza delivery gal said. “I had parakeets for three years. I loved them. Then one day I came home to see one of the birds bitten to death. The poor little thing: it didn’t have a head.”

I think about that picture every time I see the yellow bird pecking at the blue one. The blue bird used to sit on his swing and make pretty bird noises. Now only the yellow bitch-bird is allowed on the swing. When the blue bird gets near, the yellow one bites and pecks until the blue one shrivels up to the corner of the cage. The yellow bird sits on the swing and screetches. Charlie and I have both been married before. We have a lot of empathy for the blue bird.

“Can I use it for shooting practice?” Charlie asked the General. “How would you like to be stuck in a cage with that bird-bitch pecking at you all the time, hogging the swing?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I could replace the bad yellow one with a good yellow one,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t know.”

“You returned my dog to the pound. I still don’t forgive you for that.”

“The cat would have fun with it for a few minutes.”

The General picks up the cat, runs up to her room and slams the door. Charlie’s still staring at the cage. I should have left the room quickly. Charlie was thinking.

“Can you help me out?”

“Sure,” I said. I figured he needed me to help him lift something, something to do with the bird. He does everything by himself, including things he can’t do alone. This is why he pulls his back. I’m thinking how proud I am of him, asking for help before he hurts himself.

“The big-ass, honkin’ truck hasn’t been serviced and it’s a thousand miles past due,” he says. “Can you go to Jiffy Lube for me? While you’re at it, can you pick up the sinks we bought a couple of months ago at the plumbing supply? I need shower heads, too. They have big ones on sale at Lowe’s this week.”

“Charlie,” I say, “I married you so I didn’t have to do that stuff.”

“Please? It’ll take me half a day and I want to install the toilet today.”

I’m still thinking about how I can help the blue bird. If the toilet was installed, I could flush the bitch-bird, but I don’t know how to install a toilet. I don’t want to know, either. I don’t want to do any of these things.

I can either think of something to do which is even more important than installing toilets or getting the truck lubed, or be a good wife and do my husband a favor. Toilet installation is not an option.

In my mind I’ve already submitted to doing man-errands, but I haven’t said anything yet. Charlie’s staying home to stick his head down the toilet hole. I don’t even want to be in the same house while that’s going on. Driving around, even if it’s doing man-errands, is my best option.

I’m not ready to submit, yet. It’s important, if you want to be appreciated, to allow the proper amount of time to pass first. Agree right away and you won’t convince anyone that what you’re doing is a sacrifice.

“It’d really help me out.”

“Oh,” I say, sounding dramatic just like the sixteen year-old General, “Okay. You’d better appreciate me. Not just today, either.”

I try to think of all the things I do that nobody appreciates. I can’t think of a thing, but I’m not telling. My silence makes it even more dramatic. I think I’ve stumbled upon one of the General’s secret weapons: when you’re trying to think of things to prove your point, saying nothing is better than saying something unconvincing. I thought she was being quiet to give us a chance to think about how right she was. Maybe she’s quiet because if she says anything more, she knows she’d be less convincing. Being dramatic isn’t easy.

I pick up the keys and a book I don’t want to read. If I have nothing else to read, I’ll read it. I’m sure I’ll have time at Jiffy Lube to read. How Jiffy can they be?

The Jiffy Lube guys surround the truck even before I stop. They seem really excited to see me. “Big truck,” one of them says. They’re smiling and moving way too fast. It’s like the McDonald’s of oil changes.

“Same address, Percy?”

“I’m not Percy.”

“Recently purchased?”

“Yes.”

“Name?”

I tell him.

“Address?”

I tell him that, too. When did I arrive at Boot Camp?

“High mileage?”

“What?”

“Previous oil indicated. ‘High mileage’ is preferred over 75,000 miles.”

“Uh, okay.”

“Left license plate light is out. Replace?”

“Uh, okay.”

“Other services required today?”

“Can you check the other fluids while you’re at it?”

“All fluids at normal levels,” he says. “Everything else looks good.”

I got nine words out of Mr. Jiffy. “I’m good.”

“You’re welcome to the waiting room.”

I sit down and open my book. It’s awful after three paragraphs. I look at the ISBN number, trying to figure out a pattern or at least some deeper meaning. I read everything on the front and back cover. Both the cover design and photo are done by people with four syllable last names. What are the odds?

“Cash or charge?”

Mr. Jiffy must have sneaked by while I was looking at the Library of Congress Data plate. I gave him my card and I’ve never received it back so fast. I look outside and there are three more guys still running around the truck, which is now parked at the exit. Another Jiffy guy stands at the open driver’s side door like he’s the chauffer.

“Big truck,” the Jiffy chauffer guy says.

This man-errand was way too Jiffy. Charlie’s probably not even done swearing at the yellow parakeet by now. I think I’ll take my time at the plumber’s supply and at Lowe’s and see what kind of ideas I can get for the bathroom. If I get enough good, complicated, time-consuming ideas, Charlie may remember this when he wants me to go on man-errands again.

Then again, maybe I’d better hurry home before Charlie gets any ideas having to do with parakeets.

A little help? [] 8:30:30 PM