Friday, February 24, 2012


We keep Sprinkles in the bathroom at night because he's too loud when he runs his nightly 8 miles on his neon green hamster wheel. His cage is basically a bright orange rectangle with bars and a lid, and there is also a smaller clear box attached to the main cage, which we call his "apartment." This is where he sleeps, stores his favorite seeds (which he transports from his food bowl in his cheek pouches) and, disgustingly, defecates. He literally shits where he eats. He occasionally dumps his turds on the cage floor just outside his "apartment" door. He also insists on pissing out of his cage through the bars, where it leaves a brownish puddle on the floor. Maybe he's trying to tell me that he has a kidney infection by showing me the unnatural color of his urine. But I'm not taking something that cost me less than eight bucks to any medical professional, thank you very much. I tried to create a pee shield once using a page from a magazine and some off-brand plastic wrap. He insolently changed pee corners. Bastard.

Today I walked into the bathroom and saw him where he usually is during the daytime, sleeping in his apartment. But I did a double take, because I thought I saw his pink nose hanging halfway out of the "door" of the apartment. Thinking the rodent dead, I leaned in for a closer look, calling his name. (I know he doesn't know his name, but if I don't address him as Sprinkles, then who else am I talking to all day when I'm home alone? Don't answer that.) What I found startled, fascinated, and revolted me, all at the same time. I wasn't looking at the hamster's nose, nor any other part of his head, but at his scrotum, which was nearly the same size as his entire skull, and a disturbingly bright shade of pink which bordered on red. I shrieked, and looked away, and laughed, and looked again, and said "ew" several times in a row, and then shouted at the unconscious creature how disgusting his balls are to behold, asked him why they look like that, laughed again, and looked away, and then looked back. He either didn't hear me or was ignoring me and hoping I'd go away and let him air out his sack in peace.

I don't know what it was that bothered me most. It wasn't just the sheer size of his flagrantly displayed "scrote," his tallywags, his bird's eggs, his cojones, his clangers, his clappers, his chestnuts, his mountain oysters, his niagara falls, his love apples, his jingleberries, his plums, his whirlygigs, but also their shocking crimson color against the backdrop of his black and white fur, and the fact that they was hanging completely away from the rest of his body, while his face was invisible, buried in the wood shavings and shredded newspaper and toilet paper bits he calls a bed. Anyway, it was weird. I thought about taking a picture but then I realized that I was starting to wander over the borders of what could be misconstrued as animal pornography, so I decided against it. Not after that seventh grade field trip to the zoo when I took a picture of a bongo peeing, which I thought was hilarious, but caused my parents to give me a strange look and tell me to go finish my homework.

I mean, come on.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Who Says You Need A Topic?

I haven't been blogging because I felt guilty about writing such negative posts, so I tried to think of something positive to say. Six weeks later I'm back to say, "screw it."

Once upon a time I moved to Iceland. I got: semi-screwed over by a university, two jobs that I hated, a hamster, engaged, and then decided that moving to Texas would be the best way to embark on this new chapter. If you're new here, this is typical of the kinds of life decisions I make.

Oddly enough, I'm still not at all scared of getting married. I moved overseas to live with this guy after having spent all of seven consecutive days dating him while physically in the same city, so the whole legally binding contract sealed with a kiss thing is the least stressful leap we've had to make during the course of our relationship.

But tonight, I finally talked to my guy about one thing that I really am scared of when it comes to marriage. I brought it up between episodes of various sitcoms we were watching illegally on my laptop, the picture of 21st century life-partnership bliss. I began timidly...

"Honey? There's one thing that I'm really scared of when it comes to living with you for the rest of my life." (Okay "timidly" means blunt with no segue, but in a slightly higher pitched voice.)
My sensitive guy turned to face me, his face all genuinely concerned, "What is it? You can tell me."
"I--I'm really scared that I won't get to decorate my bedroom the way I want it ever again. I don't want it all guy-ie and gross with nothing but brown and squares everywhere." (That's honestly how I picture men's decorating to be: A sea of brown, black, and occasionally grey squares.)
He looked at me for a second to make sure I was serious. I was. "It's okay honey, you can decorate our bedroom. It can be girly. Well, not girly, but, you know... feminine. It'll be your room, I'll just show up to crash."

Then I got excited and started talking fast, and mentioned something about, "Blah blah blah dressing table! Blah blah blah teal, but more like forest green, with pink accents," and he looked like he instantly regretted what he said, but it was too late. You heard it here first, people. I have locked in bedroom decoration for LIFE! BOO-YAH! That's how it's done, ladies.

Seriously though, I was pretty worried about that. A woman's bedroom is her sanctuary. It's where we dominated the home phone line as teenagers, before cell phones were a thing teenagers had. It's where we blasted our Sarah MacLachlan and Tori Amos and cried over our journals when we were having a bad day (yes, I was a teen in the nineties). It's where I learned to play my first Creedence Clearwater Revival song on my Harmony acoustic guitar I saved up for ("Bad Moon Rising"). It's where we curled up in a little ball on our beds and wished we could be anywhere, ANYWHERE, but about to attend high school another day. Was that one just me? What the hell do guys do in their rooms but awkwardly masturbate? I can't help but think of the Beach Boys' song "In My Room" and think that I'm being unfair. Brian Wilson should have been allowed to decorate his adult bedroom too.

In other news, I decided to do a little detoxing and am quitting dairy for a couple of weeks and no longer eating at night for as long as I can stand it. All I want to do is eat. That's the main reason I'm blogging. Because if my hands are typing they're not shoving food in my mouth. I want three pizzas, in my mouth, now.