I had a hard time getting through work-- just couldn't stop thinking about my bird. I sat in my car and cried for a while before I could drive. Then, I came home to find Pigwidgeon missing. Pidgie. Not in his cage. Fuck.

He's turned up missing before. In which case I usually whistle, and he comes flapping out from behind the computer, or wherever he's gotten his dumb little self stuck. (His survival is a direct contravention of "survival of the fittest," believe me.) But today, he didn't make a sound. I didn't hear the rustle of feathers. Just... no Pigwidgeon.

So I got a little frantic, as you might imagine, until I looked behind the bookshelf and found him stuck there. I guess I pulled the bookshelf away from the wall just enough so he could fly back to the cage, none the worse for the wear, thank god. But I also pulled the bookshelf just enough away from the wall to send it crashing to the floor.

There are about eleven million books all over my room right now.

I just don't have the heart to start cleaning it up. Not to mention the fact that the bookshelf is unstable anyway. But I have no place else to put my books. And I need to take out the trash. And do laundry. And I have to wake up tomorrow morning at some ungodly hour, like six or something. And my sister is coming tomorrow night, so it's not like I can leave books all over my floor.

It's tempting though. At least the chaos in this room reflects, in a feng shui sort of way, my own inner turmoil.

There's a Girl Scout song called "Friends are Nothing." The lyrics say that friends are nothing until they _____ together, where the blank is filled with a succession of things like "laugh" and "cry" and "sing" and other such Scoutisms.

The song is wrong. Because there's no lyric which states, "Friends are nothing, until they stay up too late smoking and drinking, and one of them vomits up an entire bag of Doritos, which he ate when he had the munchies, all over the bathroom floor. And then they're still nothing, until the friend who just puked everywhere decides to go to bed, and the other friend, blissfully ignorant of these events, decides to go to the bathroom and then steps in a substance which looks suspiciously like marinara sauce, only it turns out to be a regurgitated Dorito. And friends are still nothing, until the friend who stepped in the vomit goes to bed, wakes up her friend Puke Boy, and tells him there's vomit on her feet which most definitely does not belong to her, in which case Puke Boy just laughs and laughs, which makes his friend laugh too, because after all, she's not exactly sober herself."

Because really, that would be a much more accurate song.

There are lots of things I wanted to say about my vacation, most of which are too painful for me to even think about right now. (I feel too guilty about having fun.) But I do want to say this. I love my friendship with Tim. I could go on and on for paragraphs, but it would only embarrass everyone concerned.

I guess it just boils down to taking pure joy in his company. I just love being around him. Even if we're doing something ass boring. Even if we're not interacting with each other at all. And yes, even with vomit on my feet.

Another important thing that happened was that I got a chance to reconnect with Charlotte. We went to this wedding together, which was on a yacht. They had an open bar all night (oh, man) and they gave us no warning when the boat was about to dock. It was like, drink! Drink more! Now drink more! Now get drunk! Now we're kicking you off the boat! Now--- wait, what?

The upshot of this was that we had to sit in the car for an hour and a half before she was sober enough to drive home. But we had a great conversation.

She told me that her feelings were hurt when I referred to her wedding as white trash. I was glad she brought it up and got it off her chest. It also gave me a chance to apologize for it. (Did I actually say the words "I'm sorry"? Maybe not. If so, Char, I am sorry.)

You know, that was an error in judgment. That was me, dramatizing my friends in an unfair way just for the benefit of my audience. It's good to be reminded why I don't want to do that anymore, and why I shouldn't.

Anyway, the vast majority of our conversation wasn't nearly this serious. In fact, it was titillating and gossipy. But the secrets of really good girl talk can never be revealed. Sorry about that.

New Bird (which is Phoebe's current nickname) continues acclimating well. She didn't seem too freaked out, for instance, when the bookshelf came crashing down in the middle of the room. At least, she recovered herself rapidly.

Plus, she seems curious and active. She hops all around her cage, climbs the sides and even hangs out on the floor, poking her head up from time to time. I am hoping that she comes to trust me and interact with me somewhat.

I am following the advice of my bird book, which is to talk soothingly to her when I have to put my hands in her cage. I'm supposed to wait until she stops flapping around wildly when my hands come near her.

Of course, in Pidgie's case, I am still waiting for this. I am hoping Phoebe's a slightly quicker study.

"'I love you, Mo mo. I love your ideas, you know? I love your creativity.... I mean, uh... what I’m trying to say is, I love... I love...

...your spice rack.'"