Find Yourself Some Bunny To Love

About two years ago, I was standing in the checkout line of one of my students. Jen was a quiet, friendly girl who had no idea that her next sentence was about to change my life in a very profound and meaningful way. Here is what she said to me:

"Oh, Mrs. D., you know, you can pick up any of the bunnies anytime! You don't even have to be buying one. As long as the top is off the little display area, you're free to pick them up and hold any one of them."

Suddenly, it was as if there was a tectonic shift below my feet. Continents collided, oceans spilled their briny and finny contents onto arid sands and arctic shelves alike. The earth held still, no longer rotating upon its axis while black holes swallowed light years' worth of galaxies and celestial bodies of planetary relics. The jet stream halted its flow and not a breath of air moved, not even a whisper of a breeze; majestic eagles and mighty condors gliding on its updraft began to plummet to the ground, saved only by genetic instinct bred of generations. A small child at a church carnival in Boise wept as her scoop of raspberry ripple ice cream fell off its cone and plopped on the hot pavement.

My pen jerked an extra "S" and I wrote "Pet Supplies Pluss" in the Pay to the Order of blank on my check. "What!?" I said, snapping my head up to meet her gaze.

"People do it all the time," she said. "That's why they're in there."

From that moment on, I have been a shameless bunny visitor to my local pet store. I go there simply to pet and hold bunnies. And I don't care who knows it.

Oh, sure, I used to pretend I was there to actually buy a bunny at first. But only if someone came by or seemed to be looking at me. And, yes, I used to actually buy something when I went. I cannot tell you how many separate cans of cat food or cat toys I used to buy. But after a while, I just went there for no other reason than to hold and pet bunnies. The nice thing about our pet store is that it is in the same shopping strip as a Target and a grocery store and a Home Depot. That makes it way easy to simply stop off and grab some bunny time.

Feeling depressed? Go and hold a bunny. Feeling bored? Go and pet some bunnies. Too cold outside to do much of anything? Go hold bunnies. Too far away from payday to feel good about shopping for shoes? Go grab some bunny time. Spring break this year was, as you know, in March. In Northeast Ohio, March is Wintertime. Spring break made me want to slit my wrists. It was cold, dark, depressing, and awful. I basically camped out with the bunnies.

Now, you might be saying, "Nance, why don't you just go ahead and buy a frikking bunny already?" One word: RICK. The husband is not on board with a bunny. He has basically said that until Emily (the blind toothless 18-year old cat) dies, there will be no more pets. (Interesting note: He tried claiming the six outdoor pond fish as pets. I maintain they do not count. Can I get a ruling?)

Jared claims that soon, the pet store people will be "on to" my bunny habit and will put a stop to it. That they'll one day come up to me and say, "Excuse me, ma'am, but you can't just keep coming in here semi-weekly and pick up the bunnies and cuddle them and then leave. In the first place, it's just weird. In the second place, at some point, you should buy one or at least have the intent to buy one. Finally, we are not licensed therapists." After I tell Jared to shut the hell up, I tell him not to worry. For, it is at this point that I plan to play my trump card and this it is: I will tell them that I am a Bunny Whisperer.

Mainly because I believe that this is true. All bunnies love me. Not once has a single bunny struggled or resisted me. They all snuggle up to my neck and chin and relax completely. I speak softly and calmly to them. And when I leave, they all look sorry to see me go.

How does that old song go? "You're no bunny till some bunny loves you...you're no bunny till some bunny cares...."

In Which I Worry Whether I Am A Bad Person Or Just Have A Sick Sense Of Humor

All right! I guess I just need a little bit of reassurance. I mean, as many DoN readers may recall, this recovering Catholic has already gotten over the whole Hell Thing. So, it's not like I'm worried about Eternal Damnation or anything. It's more of a question of whether or not...well...I don't want anyone to think I'm not a Good Person.

Let me explain.

It's this. I'm sorry, but holy crap. I laughed like hell when I read it. Just the lead line alone: "A 50-year old woman from Toledo, Ohio is recovering after a pelican dove down toward her and slammed into her face while she was swimming in the Gulf of Mexico." Are you kidding? A pelican incident? This pelican slammed into her face.

Now I'm not saying that having a full-grown seafaring bird headed straight for your face is not scarytime; it has to be. But come on. There is no way to be prepared for this when you read it in the newspaper, which is where I first saw it. I was in my jammies and robe, holding my mug of coffee, just minding my own business perusing the Cleveland Plain Dealer when all of a sudden, completely out of nowhere, this story slammed into my face!

With, as the news story says, "intense impact."

I once met a pelican. It was in Florida, at a little place called St. John's Pass. It flew down onto a dock rail and perched picturesquely on a post. A bunch of my ladyfriends and I took turns posing next to it. It just stood there, very pleasantly acquiescing to our photo session. It did not slam into our faces, nor did it even look like it wanted to. It did, however, smell terrible. It smelt of rotted fish and seaweed, which is understandable. Once our photo session was over, we wandered away from the pelican and it turned around and faced the water. I'm sure it later flew away, and probably not into anyone's face.

Sadly, the pelican in the news story did not have such an idyllic story. It died from the accident. The woman, Debbie Shoemaker, has a three-inch gash which was closed with 25 stitches. But that errant pelican gave its life.

Yet, I can't stop laughing about the whole thing. And the news stories do not help. One report felt it necessary to point out that Debbie was "not trying to attract any attention or anything of that nature." Were there pictures of fish on her bathing suit? Did she look vaguely codlike?

Sigh.

This is funny. Isn't it? Or am I just a Bad Person?

Random: proceeding, made, or occurring without definite aim, reason, or pattern

Holy Crap. It's been a week, and I haven't posted. I'm such a slug and a slacker, and it's not like I haven't felt my responsibility most keenly; I have. Have you ever had so many ridiculous hormones performing scenes from Hamlet and A Streetcar Named Desire in your body at once that you just can't stop feeling strung out long enough to accomplish anything beyond the basics?

Really? Really, you have? Then you are my very best friend right now. Let's get hammered.

Anyway. Here's some stuff.

Jared, my enormous child (and you just go ahead and take that any old way you want to) moved home from college in a heap of boxes and laundry last week. He is an English lit. major, and here is an example of the discussions we are now having at the Dept.:

Me: ...so how did that paper finally turn out?

Him: You will be thrilled to know that I employed the semicolon copiously in it. I did it for you, actually.

Me: I told you! The semicolon is the hallmark of an accomplished and mature writer.

Him: It's vastly overrated. It's extraneous in the extreme.

Me: You're full of it.

Him: What!?

Me: You heard me. I'm maligning your veracity. What will you do about it?

Him: I'll...I'll...gesticulate maliciously! (makes threatening motions at my face)

Me: You look like you're vogueing.

My birthday was on the 3rd. I turned 49. I hate birthdays like that: 29, 39, 49. They sound fakey. They sound like I'm trying to lie and hold on to some last vestige of an age that I'm not really still at. I really am 49; I'm not actually 50 and claiming to still be in my forties, hanging onto that decade. So now, when people say something about my age or it comes up and I say, "I'm 49," I might get that sad little look, or that knowing wink wink nudge nudge look that says, "sure you are, honey; sure you are." Sigh. Bullshit. I'd rather be 50 and get it over with. FIFTY. Okay. Maybe not. That sounds pretty serious. F I F T Y. Geeze. I'll start cultivating a fake British accent or something to convey that gravitas. I have a year to work on it.

Finally, I haven't done a haiku for the longest time. I really like them, too. They're short, they force you to economize your thoughts, and they really encapsulate an issue. Here's a political one. Do flex your own haiku muscle in Brainstorms.

Only Democrats

Could screw up an election

After eight Bush years.

What Do Nance and Old Faithful Have In Common? Every Once In A While, We've Gotta Blow.

This may very well be the result of some Serious Hormone Influence, or it may be the Aftermath of Post-Essay Grading Stress, but I'm just a wee bit grumpy and in need of a catharsis. I'm going to see if a bit of a brain enema can't "mellow me out," as we used to say back in the old days.

Just as a sort of postscript to my previous post regarding ladies who dine out, here's another little irritant that frosts my cupcakes. My sister and I were recently on what has now become our Annual Mom Haul, wherein we transport our mother across state lines to visit her sisters in Pennsylvania (state nickname "Home of Patsy's Relatives"), and we stopped this time to transfer custody of Patsy to her sister Shirley at a Denny's conveniently located halfway between Cleveland and Gettysburg. We all trooped in and had a little lunch before resuming our journeys homeward. While waiting for our food, I glanced around and saw a woman pull a huge emery board out of her purse which was sitting on the table. This alone was enough to horrify me. Like many women, I often have no choice but to put my purse on any number of unsanitary surfaces in any given week. There is, therefore, no freaking way I am ever putting it on the same surface from which I plan to eat or drink. No way. Then, of course, she starts to FILE HER NAILS VIGOROUSLY AT THE TABLE. IN A PUBLIC RESTAURANT.

All right. Yes. It is only a Denny's. I am aware. But it is still a public place and a restaurant. This is when I think it should be permissible for me to make a Citizen's Arrest. Immediately.

Oh, but it gets even worse.

She then, for some reason, proceeded to take out, from the depths of her enormous bag, a smaller purse. It was a fish-scale sequined clutch purse with a chain strap. It was all I could do not to A)weep, and B)call the police immediately. I mean, come ON. She was wearing a tee shirt and a hoodie. In a Denny's. Off of the Interstate.
Does anyone feel my pain? Anyone? It was at that moment that I felt very keenly the fact that Denny's does not serve alcohol.

The second thing I want to vent about is this news item that I heard about last night. No doubt many misguided young women are hopeful and excited about it. They are, alas, young and that accounts for their...misguided-ness. Just because researchers think that they may one day soon develop a birth control pill for men does not mean that women are off the hook! As the mother of two young men in their twenties, I know of what I speak. Here is a typical conversation between me and either of my sons regarding him taking any daily medication necessary for any aspect of his wellness:

Me: Hey, did you take your pill today?

Him: Huh?

Me: Your pill. Did you take it?

Him: Umm....I think so.

Me: Well, you have to! It's important. The doctor said you have to take it, and the same time every day.

Him: Mom! I know!

Me: But you don't even know if you took it or not.

Him: Jesus! Let me go count!

Me: Oh. My. God. How ridiculous.

Him: (distant) Shit!

Me: What!? What happened?

Him: They fell in the sink and some went down the drain. I hope you're happy now.

And trust me: the threat of an impending pregnancy will add little incentive. Guys just don't think that far in advance, especially if there is still female birth control as an option. The only way a male birth control pill will work is if they put something in it to make his penis bigger. Then they'll take it.

And you know I'm right.

The Phenomenon Of Ladies Who Lunch

Allow me to say at the outset that I love being a woman. I love the fact that I am talky, feely, complex, and actually do need five pairs of black shoes because yes, they are all totally different and no, I cannot wear those black shoes with that dress, how stupid.

Actually, I just went and counted and I have nine pairs. But I digress.

My point--and I do have one--is that I embrace my sex. I like being female and I wouldn't have it any other way. But there is one area where women in general need to get it under control, and that is when they're out lunching together and the bill comes.

It's absolutely horrific the convoluted calculating and dissection that occurs. It's like listening to the most devious and boring word problems ever concocted by wicked Dickensian headmasters!

"Now, Beora, you had the small dinner salad, but you also had part of my crabcakes. If the crabcakes were $8.50 for three of them and you had one, how much would that be? Don't forget that I'm also leaving a 15% tip. Oh, wait. I had the olives out of your salad. Do you think 75 cents is fair for them? I'll tell you what. Just take the tax off and we'll call it even." This is the only time when many women will willingly resort to math! Without calculators!

Rick and I were dining at The Cheesecake Factory (aka The Coldest Restaurant Ever) the other night and there was a table crowded with women next to us. I knew in my heart it was Perfect Blog Fodder, so I was very careful to discreetly observe and eavesdrop. That poor waitress. As the bills came and were passed around, the very very expertly coiffed woman in the linen cropped pants and French manicure called her over. (I stole a look at her plate: she ate only the chicken out of her sandwich and most of her fries. I also think the avocado didn't make the cut.) The waitress leaned over. "We," and the woman elegantly indicated her friend across the table in a sort of Royal Wave motion, "were wondering. Could you possibly re-do our checks and split the avocado spring roll appetizer between them? Thanks so much," she said, before the waitress had even indicated that she would.

Please. The cost of this woman's moisturizer is probably thirty times what those effing spring rolls would have set her back. I almost leaned over and said to the waitress, "Miss, you look very tired. Please don't put yourself to so much trouble for something so trivial. Put the cost of that appetizer on my bill and these ladies may consider it my treat." But I knew it wouldn't come out that way.

What is it about us that makes so many of us go through this Tortuous Ordeal? Why must we struggle so? If we are the takers, do we fear being under obligation to a possible Mean Girl who will hold it over us or snark about it behind our backs later? "You know, Beora snarfed down one of my crabcakes and I never saw a penny for them. I ate a few of her olives, but really--what's that, like 75 cents? That's so typical of her. Her kids are the same way; they come over all the time but never ask my kids over there."

Or, if we're the givers, do we worry that we'll be taken advantage of time and time again and seen as a Goodtime Girl? "Don't worry if you don't have enough money! Just come along anyway! Velma will cover any part of the bill that's left after we all 'chip in' nudge nudge wink wink. "

Aren't these women we're lunching with supposed to be our friends? Can't we just "do lunch" the way guys do and simply order food, eat it, then everyone toss money at the bill when it comes, knowing it will all even out at some eventual point sometime in the future? Isn't there a trust factor here? More importantly, even, why does math have to get all involved? Why must we Woman It Up?