Just call me Dr. Doolittle 4.

No, I am not Rex Harrison (question: why was dude in so many musicals? Talk-singing should really only get you through once or twice. "Talk to the Animals" was just a painful experience; sorry, Rexy) or Eddie Murphy (I am not potty-mouthed, male, or black). Or whoever that kid was who did Dr. Doolittle 3, the direct-to-video sequel.

I was exhausted from a morning spent with Peter, paint, and three little girls (but mostly Peter and paint) but instead of spending my very lengthy lunch break on lunch and a nap, I decided to eat and go to the neighboring pet store. It was up there with "deciding to chop off over a foot of my hair" as the best and most fulfilling decision I have ever made.

My pet-store excursion first reminded me of this vital truth: fish are boring. They can be pretty, but all they do is open and shut their mouths vapidly, with their glassy little fish eyes. Unfortunately, they remind me of some girls I know.

I also realized that when I grow up and am single with my own apartment or married with half of my own apartment, but no kids yet, I would like a mildly expensive pet. Namely, a ferret or a parrot. (Oh, my gosh--that sort of rhymed).

Ferrets are stinky and a pain; but they are cute and spunky. Cute and spunky can cover a multitude of sins. Just ask Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Kind of comes across as jerky, but the spunk! the zip! I feel like I would have to raise a ferret from a small baby so it thinks of me as its mother and will love me for the rest of its ferret life. I would put it on a leash and name it Charles Bukowski--Charley for short, but I would pronounce it "Cholly," like the kid on the "Charlie Bit My Finger" video.

I would want a parrot because I spent, literally, not figuratively, fifteen minutes in front of the cage of a four-month old Quaker Parakeet. His name was Scooter, and he stole my heart. If I had the means, I would've stolen him, because I certainly cannot afford his 259.99$ price tag. My internet research on Quaker Parakeets tells me that 259.99$ is highway robbery.

Anyway, Scooter spent fifteen minutes of his parrot life proving to me that he is the cutest, most affectionate bird in existence, merely by expressing interest in me. He, like any other four-month-old baby, played an absolutely killer game of Peek-A-Boo. He nodded voraciously at me and followed each of my movements with his crazy little side-eyeballs or by climbing on the ceiling of the cage. We definitely had a connection; I felt like The Bird Whisperer. His description on the cage indicated that he is very loving and is a good kisser. If you have room in your heart, wallet, and home for an expensive, flirtatious green bird, I recommend Scooter. Apparently Quaker Parakeets can also learn to talk, which I think is so cool. So yeah.

And then I spent the rest of my afternoon with ten rugrats, including a very, very jaded five-year old. (Five years old, a freckled nose, a pout, and he says, "Give me a break, woman!" He's so precocious; he drives me crazy but I can't stay mad for long--he's just too precocious and pouty.)

Mom, I'm sorry for all my childhood sarcasm and disrespect. I assure you that I'm getting it all back fivefold, in two-hour increments; like I said, karma is not cool. (Grace, on the other hand, is. Unlike karma, grace is not fair. It's grace.)