Marvin is doing well. In fact we just got back from going to a place where people with parakeets receive medicine and I wish I could say specifically what was going on however recently this conversation happened:
Me: Are you still wanting to keep this secret?
Me: Can I at least say what the situation is since I’m not identifying you?
Marvin: I’d prefer if you didn’t.
So, onward with the parakeets and the Who Is Marvin and whatnot. I was pretty nervous about going to this particular aviary, shall we say (side note: that may not be the best metaphor) because for some reason it just freaked me out even though I’d heard that the mood in these places is light but when you really stop and think about it the spectre of death is right around the corner (past the inspirational posters and shelves of little porcelain angels), but then when you really stop and think about it, the spectre of death is always right around the corner. But at aviaries, when you go out to use the bathroom in the hall you hear some barfing/retching sounds, which is weird because so far Marvin hasn’t felt barfy/retchy.
But anyway, aside from the fact that someone was crying in there which then triggered my feeling like I wanted to cry response, it wasn’t bad at all and the chairs were comfy and I was able to avert my gaze when needles were being inserted into things (pin cushions, voodoo dolls, haystacks) and the magazines were gossipy and I marvel at the way some of the people with parakeets keep their spirits high. Speaking of keeping your spirits high, Marvin and another family member and I (spine-tingling side note: would it be nuts if it turned out that Marvin was ME? That would be an exciting twist, speaking strictly of narrative. But Marvin isn’t me.) listened to this guided visualization meditation CD because Marvin and this family member had gone to a meditation class and I hate that I’m so immature however I had a tough time not laughing during the CD because the woman leading it had a speech impediment. I’m not making this up. Her voice was still relaxing though, in an unfortunately comical way, and when she told us to relax and let it all out and someone farted (yet again, not me!) I tried to keep a straight face but I just couldn’t instead emitting the kind of laugh that’s produced from trying really hard not to laugh. A snortle-splosion.
In other news, I was just invited to play on a softball team. Like right this very second. My response? “Are you looking for someone who’s actually good at sports?” I just want to make sure these people are as serious about it as I am because if I have to carry the team again I’ll be pissed.
What team? What do you mean by again? (That’s you saying that.)
I’m referring to the time I led the 1968 Olympic downhill skiing team to victory before I tore all my rotator cuffs and had to have them tailored. It was a nightmare because the tailor didn’t know what he was doing. “Are you not trained in surgery and buttons?” I demanded. “You’re dangling by a thread there,” Armando yelled back, jabbing at the air with his little chalk marker thing which may or may not actually be soap. I forget what happened next but I was hauled off by security even though I was an injured —and now irate—Olympic medalist in an ill-fitting shirt.
Also, I have pictures of the food I ate in first class (did I mention I flew first class on my way out here? I did? A million times? Never mind then) because I was planning on interviewing myself about it, however I haven’t gotten around to it probably because I insist that I fax myself a request and I have neither a fax machine nor the time to deal with some spoiled starlet’s ridiculous demands.