Hello Goodbye

Losing a pet is really hard. Losing someone else's pet is even harder. I had the pleasure to hamster sit once again for my favorite furry rodent, Meester Queso, while his parents were away for Christmas. My family always looks forward to visits from the friendly fellow, and this time was no exception. I brought him home and we played and played. I fed him peanuts and craisins. My dad patted his little kepi. My mom sang to him. My sister held him snugly in a clean white sock. I frolicked with him in the den. Well, I frolicked. Queso just ran back and forth happily on the couch, exploring the various dark crevasses that lead to the uncharted depths of the sofa cushions.

About 8 days into his visit, something changed. His disposition seemed to have shifted from cherubic to downright crabby. But a day or so later, Queso was back to his bubbly cheesy little self. However, last night, after scooping him up and feeling the absence of the usual warmth emitted by his flaxen fluffy body, I began to panic. I gently placed him back down into his saw dust lair and he began to wobble. As he attempted to take the first of three steps into his little wooden house, he fell over onto his back. I looked down at him, horrified by the sudden realization of how sick he was. I quickly righted Queso, and he managed to make it to his tiny sanctuary. I have not seen him since, nor have I heard the rustlings of that sweet creature in his nest.

The last time I experienced the death of a pet was when my hamster Costello died. I was 15 and had a rep in high school for being really in to hamsters (not that way pervs, I just have always liked animals. And Bob Dylan, but I digress). Mrs. Stork, my favorite social studies teacher, even gave me a card when she saw how upset I was over the death of Costello, having teared up during the class debate over the role of local vs. state and federal jurisdiction.

Ten years later, the sadness of losing a hammie is still intense, this time punctuated by the fact that at 6:00pm, after I return home from work, I have to then return Queso’s cage, sans Queso (or at least Queso’s soul), to his parents.

However, since Queso's death has not yet been confirmed, please keep him in your tiny thoughts and little paw prayers.

How's the Pressure?

I made an appointment for a massage at my usual place and had been looking forward to it for weeks. I hurt my shoulder a few years ago playing rugby (so I can actually say it’s on old football injury) and find that it really helps to get one every month or so. Especially now that I am in job that seems to have permanently shortened my neck due to stress.

The massage started off well enough, a respectable combination of new age feel goodery, Chakra points, and hurts- so- good pressure. That was the first three minutes. Things began to go south when I felt my masseuse braiding my shoulder length hair. She then stepped away from the table and pulled on my hair as though it were rope. That went on for about seven tugs, until she began to physically move south. Now, I have had many massages in my day, but I have never had a masseuse get as close to my lady parts as this woman did. As her hands moved vigorously in and out between my thighs, my eyes open saucer wide and my thoughts vacillate between simply slapping her hands away or, to really make a statement, clamping my thighs together so as to break a couple of her digits.

“My you are so tense,” she says to me, as she continues the absolute torturous rubdown. Funny how being fondled can make one tense up, I think to myself. She continues moving down to my feet and then back up to my shoulders, where she slapped me around till I bruised. “How is the pressure?” she asks, as she digs the pointy tip of her elbow into my sensitive fleshy back. “Oh fine,” I squeak, not wanting to seem wimpy and weak. However, just as I begin to think that the CIA could really use this woman down in Gitmo, she stops. Our time is up. Tears of joy wet my eyes. Or maybe they were just tears from having had the shit beat out of me while being mildly molested. And then paying for it.

I left with a stiff neck and sore shoulders and though I was able to wash off the massage oil and the shame, this was definitely not a happy ending.

Rejection!

Dear loyal readers (or more specifically, my 10 closest friends),


I want to share my Washington Post "America's Next Great Pundit" submission that was wholly rejected. This piece is me being a serious journalist. Be cruel with your comments, it is the only way I can learn.


Love,



Sticky Buns




The Swine Flu is all around, and Health and Human Services Secretary Kathleen Sebelius will not let us forget it. She is everywhere, on television at school hand washing events, university lectures, and state health departments, toting her message and her Purell. Her unwavering dedication to the prevention and eradication of this H1N1 interloper is unlike anything we have seen from recent public officials.


However, while Secretary Sebelius is out battling the evils of improper sneeze etiquette with silver dollar -sized doses of hand sanitizer, the rest of us are left to deal with the reality of this spreading virus in our world. Even as I write this, in the children’s section of the public library, I am surrounded by sniffling, runny nosed toddlers, who seem to take sheer joy in sharing their germs with one another in an infinite number of ways. This of course, increases my anxiety by the second. At work, sanitizer dispensers have become ubiquitous, installed on every wall. Guides have been placed in bathroom stalls with step- by -step instructions for proper hand washing. Whenever someone comes into the office with the slightest stuffy nose, I avoid all direct contact and stand no closer than six feet. I keep rubbing alcohol on my desk, and find myself wiping down my computer and phone every 10 minutes. However, has this sterile obsession lead to less people becoming ill? Has this anti-germ insanity prevented illness? Yes, of course it has. Modern medicine and hygiene has prevented thousands of people from becoming infected.


Paranoia in the wake of communicable disease is nothing new. In fact, a healthy respect for any newly emerged virulent strain of disease is what keeps the masses protected. Quarantines, on top of public education, are vital for keeping infectious disease at bay. During the 1918 outbreak of the “Spanish Flu,” a strain of H1NI, more than 50 million people worldwide were killed, but fatalities would surely have been higher had communities not reacted strongly to local outbreaks.


While some may see Sebelius as a fear monger of malady, I am thrilled she is at the helm of HHS during this crisis. While the uneducated minority wavers on whether to vaccinate themselves or their children against this deadly flu, Kathleen Sebelius fights public ignorance with fact while squirting a healthy dose of Purell in the face of this danger.

The Happy Couple

So I got married this weekend...Well, not exactly.

What I did do was buy a KitchenAid Stand Mixer, which at this point, is the closest thing to marriage I plan on getting in the next 10 years.

I had thought about it over the last few months, researching prices, browsing colors, and looking over my attachment options. I had planned to make the purchase in several weeks, however, yesterday, when I swung by the old department store in town and took a look at the sale, I took the plunge. I think me and Herman (my mixer) will be very happy together.

Look for our announcement in this Sunday's Post.

The Facebook Team

Thank you for the suggestion Facebook, but I do not want to be "friends" with my father. Yes, I realize we have many mutual "friends," such as cousins, nieces, nephews, and siblings, but um, yeah I live at home right now, so I don't feel the need to to be electronically bound at this point.

...And just to be clear, my dad has not actually requested me to be his "friend," his profile just simply pops up in the "you may know..." section. Yeah, ummm. I sure know him. But thanks for pointing that out Facebook. You are just so knowledgeable and awesome.

Of Mighty Mouse and Men

We have mice and have been fighting a losing battle with them since Christmas. Finally, after dozens of Have -a -Heart traps, homemade traps, and various incarnations of traps assembled from pieces of my old board game “mouse trap” (there were many marbles involved), my roommates (i.e. my parents) and I decided it was time for the dreaded, but actually proven, snap traps.

We set a couple up one evening last weekend and let them do their magic. I awoke early the next morning and tiptoed backwards into the kitchen, though, I could not help but turn and look. Sure enough, the flat desiccated corpse of a very large mouse lay on the index sized piece of ply wood forming the base of the trap. Claiming Female Hysteria, my mom and I refused to even go near the area until my dad performed a thorough crime scene cleansing.

The following evening I came home from work and my dad tells me that he has seen several baby mice zipping around the kitchen and that currently, one is in the family room racing around the rug. After shuddering with the thought of mice skipping over my toes, I proceeded to the den to find the tiniest little mouse I have ever seen, looking up at me with his big brown mouse eyes. A mixture of disgust, shock, and awww washed over me at once. I decided to try and catch the mouse in a cup to set it free, knowing how heartbroken I’d be if it ended up nibbling on that big piece of cheese in sky due to the snap traps lining the baseboards in the kitchen. I grab a big plastic cup and go at it. 30 minutes later, I am still chasing this mouse the size of a marble around the family room. Each time I think the mouse has finally gone through its hole and back to its nest, I see a part of the pattern on the Oriental rug jump, and I know the little rodent is still running for his life.

All during this frenzied, exhausting, and sweat inducing chase, my dad had been heckling me from the sidelines, exclaiming how he just can’t believe I have not caught this mouse. Yes, because that is just sooo unbelievable that a mouse, which can squeeze though a crevice the size of a dime, can outrun me. My dad then goes on to say, “what you need is…” and he gets up and goes to the utensil drawer. My eyes get wide, and my heart races. Is my dad seriously going to get a butcher knife? As my mind seizes on ways to stall him, he reaches into the drawer and pulls out…a spoon. For his yogurt. He shuffles back to the table and finally completes his thought, saying “what you need is another trap.” I sighed deeply, took a breath, and then sauntered back into the living room mouse war ready for battle.

Keeping Queso

A friend of mine left town yesterday to head west for a wedding and had asked me several days ago if I would take care of her little hamster. Being a lover of all things rodent, I enthusiastically said yes! I counted down the days till Queso’s (and yes he really does look like a big hunk of Muenster) arrival, consulting with my friend everyday about his favorite fruits and preferred petting times.


I brought him home last night and allowed him to get settled before I began to play with him. I offered him a grape, which he readily accepted, removing a chunk with his incisors and then storing the rest away in the recess of his cheek pouch . Queso trotted around his play area, digging up his bedding here, running on his wheel there, and doing a general sniffing, obviously curious of his new surroundings. I then opened the cage and swiftly scooped him up with one hand and quickly held him tight with other. Hamsters like to feel secure, though I learned as a youngster that bulging eyes will result from loving a hamster to hard. Anyway, I just held Queso and pet his little face and rump until he and I got bored. I put him back and went about my business of the evening, which involved heating up some left over’s, watching some Melrose Place, and reading the Style section from last week’s Post.


I then said good night to Queso, knowing that he would soon begin his evening full of nocturnal hamster excitement, most of which involves running on the wheel, hording food, and marking one’s personal territory through urination. I looked forward to playing with Queso the following morning, thinking he would be anticipating some affection after a hard day’s night. I slept well, knowing that little Queso was a well kept critter.


The following morning I awoke early and hurried downstairs after getting ready. The sun had just risen and my house was still dim in the early blue light of dawn as I padded lightly to Queso’s cage. I turn the lights on to find Queso, sweet little innocent Queso, sitting on the green down jacket that I had strewn on the floor the day before. I shake my head for a moment and realize that yes I am awake, and that Queso had escaped (a “code green,” as it is called at the Zoo)! He just looked at me and stared, his eyes wide as saucers (well, at least as wide as pencil erasers. I mean, he is like 7 oz.). He put his front paws up and froze. I just sat starring as well, for fear that if I made a move he would run. It was a Kennedy-Khrushchev moment, and little Queso, I am happy to say, blinked first. I scooped him up and put him back in his home. I placed the heaviest dictionary I own on top of the cage and taped up all of the weakened areas of the enclosure. He just looked at me as I shook my finger at him and yelled “bad hamster!” over and over.


I watched as Queso picked up a blackberry (a piece of fruit, not a communication device) I had given to him just before bed, and place it in his pouch along with the grape that I assumed was still packed away there. I told him that was the last treat he was going to get so he better enjoy it. Queso just stared and went into his little red wood house. But who am I kidding; he has me wrapped around his tiny little pink paw. I wouldn’t be surprised if somehow I end up in the cage tonight and he gets my bed.


Five more days to go.

Spared in the Commonwealth

A quick trip to Virginia turned into a near disaster last month…well, sort of. I thought the most exciting part of my day would be singing with Mr. Bruce Springsteen (That’s right friends, I sang in a choir with him at the Lincoln Memorial concert for Obama. Boyeah), but as I headed to a friend’s place in Virginia, I turned a corner barely a mile from her house, and busted a tire on my sweet 1993 Tempo. Luckily, I was just feet away from a small Greek café called Plaka’s Grill.


I felt ok about the situation, I mean, I had a warm place to wait, my friend was on her way to meet me (I called her the second I got inside), and most importantly, I had AAA.


Trouble began when I realized I did not have my AAA card on me. I managed to call home and get a hold of my pop who gave me the number to call for emergency service. I dialed away, confident that I would be back on the road shortly. The phone rang and rang, until finally, a recorded message came on saying that “regional AAA services have been halted due to inclement weather. We apologize for the inconvenience.”


THE WHOLE POINT OF AAA IS TO HAVE IT DURING INCLEMENT WEATHER! (Not to mention that the conditions on this particular evening were absolutely clear)


At this point, I become quite anxious. It’s 10pm in sleepy Vienna, Va and I need to be back in D.C. in 7 hrs for the obscenely early concert rehearsal the next day. I ask for a phone book, to start calling garages to get towed, when I am told the restaurant doesn’t have one. It is this detail, the lack of a telephone book, which pushes me over the edge. I become a Hysterical Crying Girl, while my friend, who arrived minutes earlier, turns her head mouthing “oh, she’s fine,” to customers witnessing the scene.


I then begin to harass every male I come across, asking if they know how to change a tire (I know it’s sexist to ask only men, but panic tends to draw the political correctness from me). I come to find that tire changing has become a lost art, and not a single person I asked that evening was able to assist me.


All the while, there was this really nice fellow at the counter that my friend and I had ordered food from (I did not want to be considered a squatter), who noticed my trouble. This dude had seen me laugh, cry, and totally lose it, all within a 40 minute span. He then offered to change my tire, so long as I did not mind waiting till the place closed. I told him I most certainly did not mind waiting, and managed to restrain myself from kissing his feet.


A short time later, he closed up shop and got to work on my old Ford. He had no gloves, so I of course, offered him mine (which I have not washed again since). He worked for about 30 minutes in 20 degree weather and the car ran once again. I felt so indebted to him, but all he asked of me was to give his place a good review on Yelp, which I did. So to reiterate, if you find yourself in Vienna and craving a gyro, hit up Plaka’s grill. Mention my name and you’ll receive a free drink and a tune-up.

Feeling suicidal at David’s Bridal

A dear friend of mine is entering the fine institution of marriage and has bestowed upon me the honor of being one of her bridesmaids. Now I really am happy to be a part of her big day (and I am not just saying that because she is most likely reading this). The truth is, it really is an honor just to be nominated, er—I mean asked because photos from one’s wedding day last forever, sometime even longer than the marriage. What I mean to say is that I will most likely be gracing the mantle, piano, or banister wall of the happy couple for at least the next 50 years, so naturally, I want to look smokin’ good.


The bride had chosen her color months ago and told us we could select any style we wished, alleviating my initial anxiety of finding something flattering. After several weeks of friendly reminders from the bride, I headed to the store and, wanting to get it all over with early in the day (and before I could possibly eat or digest any calories), I waited outside the entrance for the clock to strike eleven, the magic opening hour. I entered the store and immediately felt like a Disney princess in her castle closet. I was surrounded by satin, chiffon, and taffeta in every shade of the rainbow, from plum purple to goose grey. I immediately began to pull dresses off the rack, twirling around on my tippy toes and wrapping myself in the trains of sparkly, gleaming gowns.


My personal shopper Charlotte (that’s right, the store assigns every customer to a shopper who assists them with the difficult challenge of changing clothes) told me all the dresses could be done in any color. After forty minutes of zipping this and tying that, I settled on three finalists. These were dresses that I actually liked and possibly, under certain circumstances (for instance, should I be invited the Whitehouse Easter Egg Roll), might wear again. However, Charlotte soon broke to me the bad news. She had been mistaken and none of the eight dresses I tried on came in the bride’s chosen shade, “Pearl Pink.” Slightly disgruntled, I asked Charlotte to bring me the dresses that did come in the crimson hue, while I waited in the dressing room half naked. (The dressing room mind you, did not have a door but instead, two swatches of fabric barely big enough to meet in the middle, fastened together by a binder clip). It is there that I anxiously await Charlotte’s return, crestfallen when she comes back with a paltry two dresses. I sigh and choose the one that is the least clingy, chalking the loss of my dress dignity to merely the trials of being yet another bridesmaid.

I proceed to the register where I am filling out the dress order form, when the woman at the cashier asks if I have been measured. I said I had not, since the sample dress fit fine, but she says no, all customers must be measured. It is at this point, so close to goal line that I suffer my game ending fatal fumble. Right there, in the third circle of hell, otherwise known as David’s Bridal, not one, not two, but three sales associates spring at me and begin to measure every inch. One is at my hips, the other my waist, and the third is, in all honesty, spending just a tad too much time at my bust. My literal nightmare was coming true, and right in the middle of the showroom floor. I manage to squirm from the reins of their measuring tapes, pay my bill, and escape, ecstatic that I got out of there in one emotional piece. However, it is then that I remember I must to return in six weeks to pick up the dress…..though on second thought, maybe I’ll just have it delivered.