Yesterday, I noticed Pigwidgeon making an odd little noise. He's very quiet normally, but he started with these little clucks (sort of chicken-like in nature) and they had me concerned. It might have been an innocuous new behavior, but maybe not. Maybe he was in pain or something, who knows?

Then his breathing started to get slightly rattly. His energy is still good, but he's been doing the rattle breathing and this is exactly what happened when Cassie got sick. She still seemed fine, but her breathing got funny. I bought antibiotics at the time, but I was too scared to use them. But I'm not going to make that mistake again; I put Pigwidgeon in the isolation cage today, and the antibiotics are in there with him.

He was still eating as of yesterday, which is a good thing. When Cassie got sick, she stopped eating. I was out of town at the time, and by the time I got home, she had basically starved to death and was barely alive. And I still can't talk about it so never mind.

So as you can imagine, I am keeping a close eye on Pigwidgeon's eating habits. I know moving him into a new cage is going to be traumatizing for him, but he better start eating soon or I will panic anyway.

And how traumatizing can it be, really-- I put a whole bunch of toys in there, and his favorite perch is there, and he's right next to Phoebe. (They are chirping madly at each other right now. He's probably saying things like, "Lookit, there's a ladder in here! My cage is better than your cage, neener neener!" Because he's too dumb to know that his new cage is tiny and sucks.)

I guess we shall see. There's a part of me that is afraid of how I will feel if this works. If it fixes Pigwidgeon, then it would have fixed Cassie too. I don't really want that kind of proof; I feel horrible enough as it is. It's terrible when a pet dies, but when you're the one responsible, the guilt is almost unbearable.

Then again, I really want my stupid little bird to be okay, and that's the most important thing.

All I have been doing this week is working.

Tuesday was the worst. I woke up early in the morning and had three students to tutor, back to back to back. What with traffic and all, I didn't get a break. I had left some time in between students two and three, but during that time I had to go home, since I stupidly hadn't brought my work clothes with me.

By the time I got to work (late, just like every other day this week) I was mentally exhausted. Tutoring went well-- the kids I'm working with are so smart and fun and bright-- but it drains me mentally. I need to constantly figure out where their minds are at, how I can help them make the connections they need to make. I had a headache by the time I was done with the third student (it didn't help that all three lessons were identical-- though the students very much were not).

I was happy to be at Starbucks after all that, a place where I can turn my brain off for the most part and do some physical work. (And where I could snag some of the ibuprofen out of our first aid kit to help with that tension headache. And espresso! Lots and lots of yummy-smelling espresso.)

The only thing I don't like about tutoring (other than fearing my car might burst into flames en route) is all the phone calls I have to make. I don't like talking on the phone very much, especially not to strangers. I'm not good on the phone. I'm nervous, my voice gets too loud, and I say all the wrong things. I feel like I've picked up the phone and dialed a magical code that has somehow turned me into my mother.

So that's my dirty little secret, and it's the big drawback of the job. I guess I'll get used to it, because I have to. Everything else is good.

Yesterday I did the same thing-- tutoring and then work. I only had one student, but I had an eight hour shift at work. Today I went to the eye doctor (I am getting the cutest new glasses) and then went straight to work. I've been physically incapable of getting to work on time. Today I came home and took a shower, which made me late. I overslept on Sunday and Monday. Argh.

The bad thing about the eye doctor was that he had bad breath. Ugh. If your profession is to be all up in people's faces, you might want to pay careful attention to your oral hygiene. Just a thought.

Everything else about him was cool, though. He took digital photos of my eyeballs. I was able to look at this amazingly detailed photo of my optic nerve, and the blood vessels in my eye, and the hole in the back of the eye and everything. It was incredibly cool, and my eye is in tiptop health, apparently.

My favorite thing about the doctor was probably his assistant, who helped me pick out my frames. He was a flamboyant gay man who was very enthusiastic about frames. "Oh honey, these look simply fabulous on you. Mmm, girl!"

My point, which I lost somewhere along the way, is that I've been working a lot. I worked three closing shifts in a row, two of which were long-ass shifts, and I tutored a bunch of people. I am happy to have a couple of days off-- one day for being social, and one day for being antisocial. That's the current plan.

I have theories about some of my customers.

There's one guy who comes in every day, buys a large coffee, and sits at our table doing crossword puzzles. He's always wearing the exact same outfit. And when I say the same outfit, I mean the same outfit. I don't think he ever washes it-- I would take bets on this. The guy smells worse every time he walks in.

The outfit, for the record, includes a smelly old brown vest, a checked shirt, and shorts which reveal his hairy chicken legs. He's got thinning grey hair and a bushy beard that I am afraid to look at too closely. I always get his coffee ready before he even approaches the counter so I can ring him up with maximum speed. I hold my breath until he leaves, and avoid breathing through my nose for a while. It's seriously that bad.

Yesterday I had a note ready to slip on his windshield, suggesting the judicious use of some Febreeze fabric refresher-- I figure we'll start small. But when I went outside (under the guise of taking the trash out) I couldn't see his car. (He drives a total piece of crap, which I suppose would be a point of commonality for us, if I ever got close enough to talk to him.) Oh well, there's always next time.

But my theory about this guy is that he's a billionaire. He's always reading programming books because he's some kind of programming genius, and he doesn't have to work, so he can hang out at Starbucks all day, and he never spends money on anything-- certainly not on things like "soap" and "shampoo" and "clean underwear" and stuff.

And he doesn't tip, either, and he never buys anything except black coffee. Because he hoards his money. Because he's a billionaire.

In addition to smelly rich guys and the occasional homeless guy who spends an hour in our bathroom (I had to kick one of those guys out yesterday-- ugh) we also get crazy people once in a while. The newest guy has just begun showing up (during all my shifts of course-- lucky me). He talks in a fake British accent, orders hot water, and puts nine packets of sugar into the cup. He listens to music on his walkman and says nonsensical things to all of us when we walk by.

My theory about this guy is that he's a psychologist, and he's busy taking notes on how we react to his insane behavior. Of course I told this theory to one of my co-workers, and then she walked straight up and asked him, "Are you a psychologist?"

I cracked up when I heard that she had done this. (She claims she "worked it into the conversation"-- which is probably not hard when you're talking to a madman, you can dispense with segues altogether.) He looked at her and said, "We all have thoughts sometimes. Muahahah!"

You see? Clearly, he IS a psychologist. I am good.

Most of our customers are cool, though. And I love the ones who can take a joke. Yesterday, a guy came up to the register and I asked him how he was, and he said he was tired. I said, "Well, do you want coffee, or do you want me to smack you around a little?" Without missing a beat, he looked at me and said, "Why can't I have both?"

In other Starbucks news-- and I hate to do this to Kymm on her birthday week-- I can't drink those new crème things anymore. We mix up big batches of the crème stuff and let it sit in the refrigerator, and when you open the bucket, the mixture has separated, and part of it is sticking to the top of the lid in these thick clots. "Clot" is the only word that is disgusting enough to describe what it looks like. And I look at it and think, hmm. Arterial sclerosis, anyone?

So yeah. I don't drink that stuff anymore.

"Washing my car was a very pleasant, Zen-like experience. I must have totally spaced out too, because the next time I went outside and got in my car, I was like, 'Wow! My car is clean!' Then I said to myself, 'Self, you just spent an hour washing it. Of course it's clean. Dumbass.'"