1) I entered a section of the West Vilage where, walking down 8th avenue from 14th street, you have to cross West 4th street, Jane street, Horatio and some sort of godforsaken bastard avenue in order to reach 12th street. I was lost. And frightened. And it made no sense. There were somehow more triangular intersections than actual streets to intersect with. And all the shop names were weird and knowing and oh-so-sophisticated. Like the Dry French Cleaners, who had clothing in one window and office furniture in another.
The upside was finding an adorbs shop called The Ink Pad that sells all kinds of rubber stamps, from all over the world. I hate scrapbooking as much as you can hate anything that you literally love everything about except the actual activity itself, so I love stamps and inks and pattern paper and photos and bricabrac and stickers…. and apparently this temporary tattoo ink MamaKP was trying to tell me about in the vain attempt to get me to stop geting real tattoos is a real thing, so I debated coming home with an elephant on my forehead just to show her that she told me so. But tomorrow is Gigantor’s HS graduation (*blub*) and I hope the last time I will ever see my ex ever again in life, so I’m thinking facial tattoos, ironical and mocking or not, are not the right move. Well, they weren’t the right move for today, anyway
2) I finally encountered real, true honest to beezlebub piles of vomit on the subway platform. It was every bit as terrible as I’d always imagined it to be.
3) I was awoken this morning not by NPR, not by my jingling alarm phone, nor by streaming sunlight or my songbird shower attendants…. but by the squeaking thrashing death rattles of one Hamster Amy Poehler. I heard an awful sound coming from her cage and sat up to see her flipped over writhing in what I assume was not HamsterRobics, but grand mal seizures. As I commenced freaking out, she twitched to a standstill and I exhaled, prepared to start drafting a eulogy for what had, after all, been my favorite ha– when she rolled over, shook herself and started running in rapid circles around the floor of her cage.
From my next vantage point, pinned against the wall with a pillow over my aghast face, it was difficult to see what happened next, but after a minute I looked over and she was vacantly nibbling on the edge of her plastic di– nope, seizing again. Ok, curled up in a ball under the water bottle. Her soul has taken— OH GOD she’s up again. Seriously, I watched my hamster kick the bucket and reanimate herself about 5 times before feeling like it was safe to get out of bed since this clearly wasn’t going to end anytime soon.
I got ready for work, after guiltily replenishing her water and food just in case that was the problem. It was not the problem. She expired, exhaled and was extinct three more times before I finished pomading my hair. I debated just leaving her cage on the fire escape for the weekend since I didn’t relish returning home to an ex-hamster on Sunday night, but realized that someone who usually bails on killing the maidservice on the Sims would probably not be capable of murdering an-occasionally-perfectly-healthy hamster.
Amy peered up at me from her latest post seizure-huddle. "I’m not dead!" she seemed to be saying with her glazed eyes, "I feel happy!" Her scruffy panting sighs suggested, "I think I’ll go for a walk!" She wasn’t fooling me, but I owed it to her to let her suffer in agony, I guess. I mean, at least I didn’t bust out my hammer to play the Bells of St. Mary on my xylohamsterphone. But it was only a matter of time. Arrangements needed to be made.
I realized that asking even someone as helpful as K-cup to dispose of a body would be crossing a friendship line I wasn’t quite ready to approach, so I put a plastic trash bag around the bottom of the cage so all she’d have to do when Amy Poehler at last ceased to be was pull the bag up and around the entire cage to dispose of it. I owe her a trip to Mac Bar with my very first Writerly Paycheck, for sure.
So, anyway. That was my extremely freaking traumatizing morning. I’ve managed to be absent from the death of every single family pet to date. Stands to reason my first solo pets would be the ones I’d finally witness dropping gradually and agonizingly dead.
I’m thinking my next pet should be Janine Guineofolo, or maybe Maya Rabbitolph. Or maybe I’ll take a break for a while. I mean, the rodent death toll in my bedroom is up 200% from just a year ago, after all.