5 more years off Purgatory…

I did a genuine good deed, tonight. The cat bought in a bird and, being a cat, demanded acknowledgement of her great feline feat.

Mayhem spotted it, I discouraged the cat from holding the poor creature, and together we bought the poor thing to the relative safety of the front room.

It was a small olive-green honeysucker, judging by the proboscis-like beak and its long tongue. I held it in my hands for quite some time, and kept Mayhem from patting the poor creature and scaring it the rest of the way to its little birdie grave.

Hubbie, at my badgering, looked up care and maintenance of cat-struck birds. Instructions that said to place the bird in a shoe box and stay with it until it began walking around.

Well, by the time Mayhem returned with a shoe box, the bird decided it had had enough of these giant noisy pink things and tried to take of on its own. Cue Benny Hill theme as my good self, Mayhem, a chair and a small cardboard box attempted to round up and free to the outside world a small bird about the same size as a mouse.

The good news is that the little olive honeysucker was last seen speeding into the night, hell for leather, little birdie brain determined to find a place of safety and freedom.

The bad news is that the cat was last seen sauntering determinedly after it.

The whole point is, even though I’m dreading hearing a feline’s triumphant meows of a victorious capture, I helped rescue a bird. I held in my hands a little miracle and aided in its survival. That’s one hell of a natural antidepressant. Without the side-effects of numbing the entire heart to the point where nothing can be felt at all.

I feel marvellous. After weeks of hating myself for various reasons, I feel over the moon. It’s wonderful therapy to do something tangibly good. Remember that, it might come in handy.

Drama Llama is moving in….

The dog somehow got into my car. He chewed the back seat. He chewed the driver’s seat belt. He didn’t get into anything else, thank goodness, but I’ve been packing death.

It could have put the kibosh on my travel plans.

Thanks to the blithe spirits, the insurance mob told me they’d spring for everything shy of $500. Ouch. But not so much ouch as total replacement would have cost sans insurance.

I need to pack summer stuff and I may be buying most of it in foreign lands, ‘cause everything over here is winter themed, now. Blarhhhh.

And I have to get special shoes just for the airport so I don’t track foreign greeblies into other countries, or track them back into here. I’m thinking Ballet Flat type shoes. At least the heels can’t fuck up my feet.

It’s them or some converse sandshoes.

I did get some hep shots. Last week. My shoulder is still effing tender. They weren’t kidding when they said there’d be soreness in the arm.

And in six months, I can do it all again so I’ll be protected for twenty years. Yay.

One more week of hobbling and I should be back on my feet. IF I can find some of those damn spur heel inserts in a ladies’ size ten, I should be able to walk around without too much further pain.

I might have to order them in. More $$$ down the drain.

On the plus side, I have a rental car for the week it should take for my car to get fixed. I just have to remember to not be paranoid about qualifyers. And be completely paranoid about locking the thing when everything that should be out of it is out of it. And do the same for my beloved zippy little car when it comes back home.

And a nice person from the RSPCA is going to come around for free and help us teach the hound not to chew the expensive things.

Now I can’t work on the adventure map 'cause I have to stake out the front door and the phone for the people who are supposed to come by and do things. Nargh.

There goes the other shoe…

Drama Llama stopped by and handed me a little quote-unquote “gift”. Dramatically, of course.

The friend who verified my identity forgot to initial a correction on the form she filled out, verifying my identity.

I now have to wait for the weekend, attend a baby shower, and hand over a vital document so it can be initialled in the correct place and sent back to me.

Which now also means I have to gather up a First Mum’s Survival Pack.

Said survival pack includes: 1 set of terry towelling nappies, 1 travel pack of baby wipes, 1 cotton sarong, 1 biggish tube of the pawpaw rash cream that works like magic and one entertaining /educational toy for the spawn. I may throw in some onesies and mittens.

The original included an instruction booklet, but that document is on a drive I can’t currently access. Yay.

The cotton sarong is extremely useful. If Mum is breastfeeding, then it gives Mum and Bub adequate privacy. It also serves as sun shade, blankie, emergency wrap and - if you’ve run out of terry nappies, a mess mop. I get cotton because it washes like a dream, and I get a sarong because some people have very funny ideas if you ask for a scarf.

Some people have very funny ideas about what makes a sarong, too, but you’re less likely to trip over such a weirdo.

The good news is I have a good idea on where to get all this crap. The bad news is it might cost a small fortune.

Most, if not all of that stuff, will remain useful until potty-training. Trust me. They are the items I found most useful when mine were tiny.

All’s quiet…

TOO quiet, as they are won’t to say.

I haven’t had any dramas dropping into my lap, nor Drama Llama’s coming to stay. So far.

I reckon they’re saving themselves up for tomorrow.

What’s happening tomorrow, you may ask? Well, I plan on going out to get a passport photo taken. So I can take it to a friend on Sunday and get myself verified. I hope.

That’s when the Drama Llama will step up to my side and hound my arse all damn day.

Or I’ll be forbidden from going because I have to hold the dog so hubby can mow the jungle lawn.

These things are sent to try us. And make me go gray. And give me dyspepsia.

Heh. Maybe if I leave early enough, he won’t be awake to stop me >:)