Sweetie, Part I
What follows is a modern-day Aesop's fable, the story of what happens to one who attempts to deceive. The characters are me, the deceiver, my son, the almost deceived, and two identical gerbils, the unwilling and witless foils around which the story revolves.
We lost a member of our little family last week. One of my son's two gerbils died. At 2, he'd lived a long gerbil life and died fat - enormously fat - and hopefully happy.
Robby was getting ready for bed last night when he peered into the aquarium that houses the two gerbils.
"What's Checkers doing to Romante?" he asked me, a tremble of fear in his voice.
Checkers, the skinny brown-and-white gerbil, was bent low over Romante, the fat black one. He lay, unmoving, on his back. Checkers was hovering over his mouth, nibbling. Cannablizing her dead roommate, I quickly realized.
"Oh honey, I think Romante's dead," I said.
Robby reached into the aquarium and pulled out Romante's stiff body. "He's cold. Really cold," he said, his face twisting in the first spasm of grief.
I peered anxiously at Romante's face. His chin was a bit red from Checkers' teeth, but she hadn't yet pierced the skin and exposed any flesh. That much was a relief, but my mind raced, searching for the words to explain Checkers' actions.
Personally, I didn't blame Checkers for wanted to extract her pound of flesh. From all that I could see, Romante repeatedly had pushed her head out of the feeding trough over the years, reducing her to a very slight rodent while he ballooned so much it appeared he'd swallowed a golf ball whole. This for her was poetic justice, but not a facet of the circle of life with which I thought my son could yet deal.
I suggested we put Romante's body in a box and bury him the next day. Robby nodded, handing me the body and then reaching into the aquarium for Checkers. He held her close.
"Checkers was trying to breath life back into him," he said.
"Yes," I said. "She was."
The urge to laugh was at war with another to cry. I'd been spared explaining the ugly side of nature by a child's blindingly pure conviction that respect for life extended even to the littlest of creatures.
So it was with his first gerbil. He believes she died of strange, unnatural causes. I hadn't the heart to tell him she was killed by George, the cat he loves so much.
You could say we've had a bad run of luck with gerbils, although these last two have lived to ripe old ages. Checkers, I fear, may now die of loneliness, and Robby says he wants no more after they're both gone.
Perhaps that's because none of them can replace his first gerbil, Sweetie.
Sweetie was a gift for his 8th birthday. She was solid brown, physically unremarkable. I wrapped the elaborate, plastic, multi-colored cage for his party, and we both went to PetsMart to choose its occupant.
Initially, he wanted a hamster. But then, an oh-so-cuddly-looking Teddy bear hamster chomped down on his thumb during a visit to the pet store. The bite was so hard both the PetsMart clerk and I could hear teeth rending flesh. Robby's face was a heartbreaking mix of disbelief, pain and sorrow. At that very moment, a cockatiel peering in from his condo-sized cage gave a piercing shriek. Robby burst into tears.
The Teddy bear hamster, and all his kin, were out. The gerbils, extremely mouselike but amazingly social little rodents, were in.
Robby chose Sweetie, whom even I will admit had a softer, more gentle personality than any gerbil I've since met.
For Robby, it was love at first cuddle. That weekend, he was never without her. He held her while he watched TV, encouraging her to watch with him, sometimes just stroking her head and looking at her face. He taught her to climb stairs and race through a chain of toilet paper rolls. He let her crawl underneath his shirt, laughing hysterically as her tiny claws tickled his belly. Later, he put her down his pants and laughed even harder - but this memory is disturbing so we'll quickly move past it. We took pictures of them together, Robby holding her just under his chin in two firm hands. His grin was ear to ear.
When he left Sunday night to go back to his dad's, he reluctantly placed her in her cage. "Take care of her, Mom," he said.
"Don't worry," I said, disguisng my amusement at his concern. "I will."
Monday evening, I came home to find Sweetie dead in the middle of the living room floor. From all I could reconstruct, George had knocked over the surprisingly flimsy plastic cage. Sweetie's body was whole. There was no blood, no open wounds, no evidence of trauma. George, a domestic cat who had no need to hunt for food, had played with her until she died, I surmised. Likely a slow, painful death.
I flushed Sweetie down the toilet as panic set in. Less than 24 hours after my son had left, his gerbil was dead. How on earth could I tell him? And even worse, how could I tell him that George - in a fit of domestic kitty boredom - had done it?
The phone interrupted my thoughts.
"Mom?"
I froze. My son rarely called me during the week.
"I just called to see how Sweetie's doing," he said.
"Oh, she's just fine, honey," I said.
From the bathroom, I heard the toilet tank refilling. Sweetie was already swirling through the sewer lines, starting a miles-long journey downtown to the wastewater treatment plant.
I hung up filled with utter contempt for myself. Not only had my son's pet died on my watch, I had bald-faced lied to him about it.
I was backed into a corner. There was only one thing to do - I had to find a Sweetie lookalike.
Now I hate to do this to you all, but like the Joel story, this will be told in two parts. It's late. I'm tired. There's a cold, rodent body in my storage unit awaiting a proper burial and likely rotting in this unseasonably warm spring weather. All in all, it's been a difficult couple of days in our small household.
Besides which, this is a rather lengthy story, and out of respect for Sweetie, it needs to be properly told.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Monday, March 20, 2006
Every office has its bright lights. Mine includes a precious few, which makes the departure of each one bittersweet indeed.
In this case, as with almost every one before her, a much-loved co-worker is moving on to something better.
Like prisoners watching a fellow inmate make parole, we share her joy. All of us are waiting our turn to take that exit interview, gather the meager belongings and handful of change with which we arrived and let that heavy, steel side door clang shut behind us one last time. We're all on good behavior until that day arrives, knowing we need the good references, the benefits and the paycheck so we can smoothly transition into a brave, new world.
Watching a coworker leave gives us all hope and restores our confidence that it can indeed be done. But like Ellis in Shawshank Redemption, those of us who remain feel the loss.
The parolee, Molly, is a staff photographer with whom I've worked for three years. She isn't hanging around and risking the hellish recidivism of a rehire. She's crossing several state lines and getting far the hell away from Dodge.
Yeah, yeah, I know – she's moving someplace cool to visit. But really, why can't she just conduct her graduate school studies here in Colorado? Just what kind of sicko comes up with a scholarship that requires you move to California to cash in on it? Besides an overabundance of beautiful people, beautiful beaches and a fading but once-beautiful governor, where's the appeal?
Molly is more than 10 years my junior but one of those people who attracts friends of all ages and types and with whom age is irrelevant. I consider her a good friend. So does everyone else.
Like me, she tested as an ESFJ Meyers-Briggs personality, but is far more true to type than I. The description that accompanies this personality type is Molly: "Warm, friendly and affirming by nature, generally upbeat and popular, people are drawn to them. They are the guardians of birthdays, holidays and celebrations."
I can think of few people into whose category I'd rather be lumped. But she is the ESFJ Classic. I am ESFJ Dark, a far moodier version who manages to be a party-throwing, spotlight-hogging, hostess-with-the-mostest in some situations, a completely withdrawn - and often sullen - misfit in others.
Whatever. Molly tolerates my occasional social challenges well. She has ridden with me through some choppy waters in the last year, taking my side without question when even I didn't know if my decisions were for the best.
She is quick with a quip, a shoulder or a shot.
You could enter the office a stranger and find Molly. Follow the laughter to her desk. It's a too-rare sound in our office, an alarming and no-doubt annoying reminder to many there that work and fun really can go hand in hand. And it most often radiates from her desk, around which one or two people, often a small knot of them, gather.
Molly always takes the time to smile, banter, share fashion observations, hangover remedies and unvarnished gossip.
She's also situated en route to the bathroom, which gives me an easy and frequent excuse to take a social break.
I know that for a while after she leaves, my throat will ache a bit every time I pass her desk, and I will baselessly resent whomever next takes that seat.
Ideally, we'll get a new and equally fascinating inmate soon, but such creatures rarely are sucked into our strange little vortex. When they are, they're spat back to the normal world in short order. For us, the left behind, the only course is to follow the rules, be model employees and wait for the day when we can follow Molly's footsteps into the staggering brightness of the free world.
And just like in Shawshank, I'll start that new life with the fat wad of cash Molly's leaving under a rock for me. Hey, we all need our little fantasies.
Meanwhile, the bright lights that remain will keep one another amused, and our solemn co-workers annoyed.
And if we listen carefully, I bet we'll soon hear the faint echo of her new friends' laughter emanating from the West Coast.
In this case, as with almost every one before her, a much-loved co-worker is moving on to something better.
Like prisoners watching a fellow inmate make parole, we share her joy. All of us are waiting our turn to take that exit interview, gather the meager belongings and handful of change with which we arrived and let that heavy, steel side door clang shut behind us one last time. We're all on good behavior until that day arrives, knowing we need the good references, the benefits and the paycheck so we can smoothly transition into a brave, new world.
Watching a coworker leave gives us all hope and restores our confidence that it can indeed be done. But like Ellis in Shawshank Redemption, those of us who remain feel the loss.
The parolee, Molly, is a staff photographer with whom I've worked for three years. She isn't hanging around and risking the hellish recidivism of a rehire. She's crossing several state lines and getting far the hell away from Dodge.
Yeah, yeah, I know – she's moving someplace cool to visit. But really, why can't she just conduct her graduate school studies here in Colorado? Just what kind of sicko comes up with a scholarship that requires you move to California to cash in on it? Besides an overabundance of beautiful people, beautiful beaches and a fading but once-beautiful governor, where's the appeal?
Molly is more than 10 years my junior but one of those people who attracts friends of all ages and types and with whom age is irrelevant. I consider her a good friend. So does everyone else.
Like me, she tested as an ESFJ Meyers-Briggs personality, but is far more true to type than I. The description that accompanies this personality type is Molly: "Warm, friendly and affirming by nature, generally upbeat and popular, people are drawn to them. They are the guardians of birthdays, holidays and celebrations."
I can think of few people into whose category I'd rather be lumped. But she is the ESFJ Classic. I am ESFJ Dark, a far moodier version who manages to be a party-throwing, spotlight-hogging, hostess-with-the-mostest in some situations, a completely withdrawn - and often sullen - misfit in others.
Whatever. Molly tolerates my occasional social challenges well. She has ridden with me through some choppy waters in the last year, taking my side without question when even I didn't know if my decisions were for the best.
She is quick with a quip, a shoulder or a shot.
You could enter the office a stranger and find Molly. Follow the laughter to her desk. It's a too-rare sound in our office, an alarming and no-doubt annoying reminder to many there that work and fun really can go hand in hand. And it most often radiates from her desk, around which one or two people, often a small knot of them, gather.
Molly always takes the time to smile, banter, share fashion observations, hangover remedies and unvarnished gossip.
She's also situated en route to the bathroom, which gives me an easy and frequent excuse to take a social break.
I know that for a while after she leaves, my throat will ache a bit every time I pass her desk, and I will baselessly resent whomever next takes that seat.
Ideally, we'll get a new and equally fascinating inmate soon, but such creatures rarely are sucked into our strange little vortex. When they are, they're spat back to the normal world in short order. For us, the left behind, the only course is to follow the rules, be model employees and wait for the day when we can follow Molly's footsteps into the staggering brightness of the free world.
And just like in Shawshank, I'll start that new life with the fat wad of cash Molly's leaving under a rock for me. Hey, we all need our little fantasies.
Meanwhile, the bright lights that remain will keep one another amused, and our solemn co-workers annoyed.
And if we listen carefully, I bet we'll soon hear the faint echo of her new friends' laughter emanating from the West Coast.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Blondes do not have more fun. Neither do brunettes.
The happiest times come, of course, to those who are confident and content with themselves, something none of us felt Saturday as flaxen-haired females.
Blonde night was, in many ways, a bust. We were cuter as blondes than we'd anticipated. We nailed the scantily dressed part of the equation. We were a bit high, and a bit more intoxicated. But we were not comfortable in our modified skins.
The three of us spent days searching for our wigs. April and I found ours at a costume shop during a weekday lunch hour. After considerable giggling and wig swapping, April settled on a platinum blonde number designed for a man called The Mullet. Name aside, she looked cute as a button in it, eerily like Loni Anderson. Mine was the Tina Turner, a long, strawberry blonde wig with a most unnatural bump on top. I reminded the wig shop owner of Elvira's sister, she said, laughing. She did not say that was a good thing.
Joani spent hours searching for hers, finally finding one 20 minutes before the wig shop closed on the night of our mission. Hers, a silvery, black-streaked wig that mimicked her natural style uncannily, was the most natural looking of all. She will, as another friend noted, be an extremely hot senior citizen.
We met at April's house Saturday night and helped one another tuck resistant strands into wig caps, brush our fake tresses into some semblance of reality and practice hair tosses. We drank wine, took vampy pictures and ramped up for an evening of high flirtation.
All that ended when we walked into the bar. We became, instead of the participants we usually are, wallflowers. Bright, yellow, hard-to-ignore wallflowers, but wallflowers nonetheless.
This was a twist I think none of us anticipated. I did not expect to see a stranger in the mirror, a woman so foreign I felt removed from myself and uncertain how to act. With a wig on my head so long and bright it demanded attention, I shrunk inwardly, certain from a couple of sidelong glances that my disguise fooled no one. For those few hours, I lost most of the confidence it's taken me years to find.
Complicating matters, we had walked into a bar birthday party attended, for the most part, by people young enough to be our children.
And Eden (for where else could we go?) had somehow become even more sexually daring than last time we'd visited. This time, instead of short dresses with plunging necklines, boy shorts or bikini tops, the waitresses were wearing underwear. Push-up bras and underpants so lacy the tags shown through them. In the space of three weeks, it had sequed from a place that seemed cutting edge sexy to borderline strip club.
The three of us, in tight jeans, a see-through blouse and lacy camisole and short black velvet dress felt conservative. It is not a place to which we shall soon return.
April tried repeatedly to liven the atmosphere. She made a few random, intentionally obnoxious comments to passing men, encouraged me to dance on a low table and shake my strawberry blonde tresses in wild abandon. But in the end, she threw up her hands, giving up not only on me but on her own attempts to attract some sort of attention.
"I feel like it's so obvious. I think everyone knows," she said.
Joani shrugged the evening off as an interesting experience. "Your expectations were too high," she said.
I had hoped for at least one phone number, but at that point would have settled for a hello. Even eye contact. But since I kept my eyes mostly downcast, that was an unlikley occurrence at best.
I've never thought of myself as particularly confident. Like most of us, the picture the world sees is somewhat different from the image I have o f myself. But I realized that night that I have better self esteem than I realized, and feel a nice sense of satisfaction with the familiar face that daily greets me in the mirror. Challenging hair and all, I like my brunette self.
So, we agreed, do we all. It's that comfort level - some days stronger than others - that lends us a confident walk, the ability to look someone square in the eye, to offer a smile that's friendly, and sometimes a touch more.
While we failed to score phone numbers, we came away with something much better for our egos: a new-found appreciation for ourselves, just the way we were made.
The wigs have not been packed away in mothballs just yet. April wants to try it again, in a different venue, a different town entirely. The Blonde Brigade must ride again, she says, this time in a city with a slightly more mature demographic, where the men have an appreciation for blonde women in their 40s.
We're saving our pennies for tickets to Florida.
The happiest times come, of course, to those who are confident and content with themselves, something none of us felt Saturday as flaxen-haired females.
Blonde night was, in many ways, a bust. We were cuter as blondes than we'd anticipated. We nailed the scantily dressed part of the equation. We were a bit high, and a bit more intoxicated. But we were not comfortable in our modified skins.
The three of us spent days searching for our wigs. April and I found ours at a costume shop during a weekday lunch hour. After considerable giggling and wig swapping, April settled on a platinum blonde number designed for a man called The Mullet. Name aside, she looked cute as a button in it, eerily like Loni Anderson. Mine was the Tina Turner, a long, strawberry blonde wig with a most unnatural bump on top. I reminded the wig shop owner of Elvira's sister, she said, laughing. She did not say that was a good thing.
Joani spent hours searching for hers, finally finding one 20 minutes before the wig shop closed on the night of our mission. Hers, a silvery, black-streaked wig that mimicked her natural style uncannily, was the most natural looking of all. She will, as another friend noted, be an extremely hot senior citizen.
We met at April's house Saturday night and helped one another tuck resistant strands into wig caps, brush our fake tresses into some semblance of reality and practice hair tosses. We drank wine, took vampy pictures and ramped up for an evening of high flirtation.
All that ended when we walked into the bar. We became, instead of the participants we usually are, wallflowers. Bright, yellow, hard-to-ignore wallflowers, but wallflowers nonetheless.
This was a twist I think none of us anticipated. I did not expect to see a stranger in the mirror, a woman so foreign I felt removed from myself and uncertain how to act. With a wig on my head so long and bright it demanded attention, I shrunk inwardly, certain from a couple of sidelong glances that my disguise fooled no one. For those few hours, I lost most of the confidence it's taken me years to find.
Complicating matters, we had walked into a bar birthday party attended, for the most part, by people young enough to be our children.
And Eden (for where else could we go?) had somehow become even more sexually daring than last time we'd visited. This time, instead of short dresses with plunging necklines, boy shorts or bikini tops, the waitresses were wearing underwear. Push-up bras and underpants so lacy the tags shown through them. In the space of three weeks, it had sequed from a place that seemed cutting edge sexy to borderline strip club.
The three of us, in tight jeans, a see-through blouse and lacy camisole and short black velvet dress felt conservative. It is not a place to which we shall soon return.
April tried repeatedly to liven the atmosphere. She made a few random, intentionally obnoxious comments to passing men, encouraged me to dance on a low table and shake my strawberry blonde tresses in wild abandon. But in the end, she threw up her hands, giving up not only on me but on her own attempts to attract some sort of attention.
"I feel like it's so obvious. I think everyone knows," she said.
Joani shrugged the evening off as an interesting experience. "Your expectations were too high," she said.
I had hoped for at least one phone number, but at that point would have settled for a hello. Even eye contact. But since I kept my eyes mostly downcast, that was an unlikley occurrence at best.
I've never thought of myself as particularly confident. Like most of us, the picture the world sees is somewhat different from the image I have o f myself. But I realized that night that I have better self esteem than I realized, and feel a nice sense of satisfaction with the familiar face that daily greets me in the mirror. Challenging hair and all, I like my brunette self.
So, we agreed, do we all. It's that comfort level - some days stronger than others - that lends us a confident walk, the ability to look someone square in the eye, to offer a smile that's friendly, and sometimes a touch more.
While we failed to score phone numbers, we came away with something much better for our egos: a new-found appreciation for ourselves, just the way we were made.
The wigs have not been packed away in mothballs just yet. April wants to try it again, in a different venue, a different town entirely. The Blonde Brigade must ride again, she says, this time in a city with a slightly more mature demographic, where the men have an appreciation for blonde women in their 40s.
We're saving our pennies for tickets to Florida.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Act 2: "Dye your hair blonde and see if they really do have more fun."
To my shame, I accomplished no new feat in February. I felt as though I'd broken a promise to myself, which, of course, I had. But February's a short month, I reason, and I'll make up for it in March.
Indeed, it appears I may.
#22 in "What Every Woman Should Do Once" - the above - happens Saturday night. It's undergone a bit of a metamorphisis from the original suggestion, but I think this version may be even better. There will be no hair dying, which may disappoint some, but I also will not be doing this solo. What's better than one brunette going blonde than three?
Two of my friends, the raven-haired April and auburn-tressed Joani, have agreed to join me in temporary blondeness. We've opted for wigs, instead of color, and likely will go full-bore and wear somewhat sleazy attire to complete the look.
Before my blonde friends (and sister) pepper me with angry comments, this is not because we believe all blondes are sleazy.
Rather, the consensus is that if you're going to take a walk on the other side of the fence, don't just straddle it. Pole vault on over there and experience it to the max.
Besides which, it appears we have a growing audience, a fan base of sorts that expects a good show. My deskmate Tom, neighbor Tom, neighbor Tom's cadre of mostly Italian friends who are known far and wide as the Colorado Springs Mafia, current co-workers, former co-workers and most of my high school class are coming by bus, plane and train to witness this event.
The three of us are practicing a dance routine, a Rockettes-variety show during which we hope our cheesy wigs will stay firmly put. Joani is riding in on an elephant and April and I are negotiating to borrow the American Furniture Warehouse tigers. We will carry the tigers' leashes in one hand, whips in the other.
OK, so the last two, three or four lines may not be true. But it does seem word has gotten out and the pressure is on.
None of us believe we will be attractive blondes. Joani's skin is olive toned, and April and I are milky-complected Wisconsin girls. Nice-looking women in our own skin who still turn a few heads.
The question is, would we turn more as blondes? Have we, all these 40-plus years, been missing out on a plethora of male attention? Would we really have had more fun?
My son pointed this evening to a crayon drawing he'd done of me several years ago. It was a Mother's Day gift that hangs on the refrigerator to this day, and as he noted, likely needs to step out of the spotlight. "Your hair doesn't even look like that anymore," he said. It's longer and not so big, and that, he says, is better.
In his mind, it seems, hair is key in creating the image one projects to the world. "Really Mom," he said, "hair is what it's about."
He's a small male, but a male nontheless. And with two girlfriends in his corner, perhaps his comment merits serious consideration.
In six days, we'll put this legendary theory to the test and discover for ourselves: Do blondes really get more giggles out of life? Or is it just as we brunettes have long thought -- the only thing they actually get more of are really bad jokes?
To my shame, I accomplished no new feat in February. I felt as though I'd broken a promise to myself, which, of course, I had. But February's a short month, I reason, and I'll make up for it in March.
Indeed, it appears I may.
#22 in "What Every Woman Should Do Once" - the above - happens Saturday night. It's undergone a bit of a metamorphisis from the original suggestion, but I think this version may be even better. There will be no hair dying, which may disappoint some, but I also will not be doing this solo. What's better than one brunette going blonde than three?
Two of my friends, the raven-haired April and auburn-tressed Joani, have agreed to join me in temporary blondeness. We've opted for wigs, instead of color, and likely will go full-bore and wear somewhat sleazy attire to complete the look.
Before my blonde friends (and sister) pepper me with angry comments, this is not because we believe all blondes are sleazy.
Rather, the consensus is that if you're going to take a walk on the other side of the fence, don't just straddle it. Pole vault on over there and experience it to the max.
Besides which, it appears we have a growing audience, a fan base of sorts that expects a good show. My deskmate Tom, neighbor Tom, neighbor Tom's cadre of mostly Italian friends who are known far and wide as the Colorado Springs Mafia, current co-workers, former co-workers and most of my high school class are coming by bus, plane and train to witness this event.
The three of us are practicing a dance routine, a Rockettes-variety show during which we hope our cheesy wigs will stay firmly put. Joani is riding in on an elephant and April and I are negotiating to borrow the American Furniture Warehouse tigers. We will carry the tigers' leashes in one hand, whips in the other.
OK, so the last two, three or four lines may not be true. But it does seem word has gotten out and the pressure is on.
None of us believe we will be attractive blondes. Joani's skin is olive toned, and April and I are milky-complected Wisconsin girls. Nice-looking women in our own skin who still turn a few heads.
The question is, would we turn more as blondes? Have we, all these 40-plus years, been missing out on a plethora of male attention? Would we really have had more fun?
My son pointed this evening to a crayon drawing he'd done of me several years ago. It was a Mother's Day gift that hangs on the refrigerator to this day, and as he noted, likely needs to step out of the spotlight. "Your hair doesn't even look like that anymore," he said. It's longer and not so big, and that, he says, is better.
In his mind, it seems, hair is key in creating the image one projects to the world. "Really Mom," he said, "hair is what it's about."
He's a small male, but a male nontheless. And with two girlfriends in his corner, perhaps his comment merits serious consideration.
In six days, we'll put this legendary theory to the test and discover for ourselves: Do blondes really get more giggles out of life? Or is it just as we brunettes have long thought -- the only thing they actually get more of are really bad jokes?
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