Every other Saturday I go to the Chiropractor and Occupational Therapist. My mind really tends to wander, especially with the O.T., because much of the treatment requires me to lie on an examination table for an hour. I should really start keeping track of all the crazy places my mind goes when I allow myself an hour for stream-of-consciousness. (Similar to my recent blog post about the Girls Grilling cap). Anyways, in was under these conditions that I found myself thinking about rodent abortions. Yes, rodent abortions. Since Pfunk and I adopted the rats, I've joined a few rat groups on flickr. A woman recently posted a story to one of the discussion boards about how she bought a new cage that she thought would contain and separate her male and female rats. Well, she was wrong and ended up with a litter of 10 rat babies. So she paid to have all of her female rats spayed. It was at this point in the story that I read the sentence, "As it turned out, none of the girls were pregnant so I don't have the added guilt of thinking I killed babies but I still 'paid the price' right in the wallet." Really? Were you really going to lose sleep had any of your EIGHT female rats been knocked up when you had them fixed? See, you all may think that Pfunk and I are rat crazy and maybe we are, but some of these people take the crazy to a whole other level!!
Random aside: I can sympathize with the part of her story where the rats escaped the cage. Pfunk and I bought a smaller cage for the girls for travel and trips to the vet(ok, you're right, we are rat crazy) off craigslist this weekend. I underestimated how far apart the bars were in the posted photo and it took Falafel all of two minutes to escape from the ceiling of the cage. It was just like Kate leaving the bear cage on Lost. Tabouli wasn't quite able to follow Falafel's lead and squeeze through. She may be a little slow (or timid), but we still love her.
I bought the new David Sedaris book on Thursday evening with the goal of rationing it out, savoring each essay. But I was a total literary glutton and finished it at a coffee shop Saturday afternoon (actually, it is somewhat remarkable that it even lasted that long). I had just started the last chapter entitled "The Smoking Section," when a gentleman took the seat on the other side of the end table next to my own chair. Before reading that chapter I'd said to Pfunk, "if David Sedaris can quit smoking, anyone can!" (two of her family members are trying to quit right now). That was before I read that he up and moved to Japan in order to quit. Anyways, I'm reading about Sedaris's last cigarette in Paris before flying to Tokyo (and then his 2nd final cigarette...and his 3rd final cigarette...) when I realize that the man that had sat down next to me was hooked up to an oxygen tank that was quietly exhaling bursts of air into the tube connected to his nose every 10 seconds or so. There are probably dozens of medical reasons someone might use an oxygen tank that have absolutely nothing to do with cigarette smoking, but I still found myself laying the book in my lap to conceal the cover:
I was talking to my sister on the phone yesterday. She was telling me about the wedding she went to the night before that was filmed by a reality TV camera crew. It was for a new show on NBC called I Do and if the show makes it to air, you will probably see my Brother-in-Law because he was a groomsman. Anyways, she was chatting away about the personalized party favors (including personalized matchbooks to light the provided sparklers at the end of the night - yikes) when I interrupted her to say, "Go ahead and flip me off you fucking Ron Paul voting idiot!!". I might've gotten a "mother fucker" in there too. No, I don't have tourettes syndrome (although Pfunk would claim I show symptoms when either sneezing or playing Guitar Hero). I was driving while talking on the phone. I was behind this guy driving a Cavalier with a Ron Paul bumper sticker. We both pulled into the intersection to turn left, but had to yield to the through traffic. Well, the light turned yellow and the oncoming traffic slowed down to stop, but he still didn't turn. The light turned red and we were both still sitting in the intersection, so I honked at him. At which point both he and his buddy gave me the finger out their open windows, he threw something at my car threw his open window and purposefully drove as slow as he could through the turn. Asshole! My family is so used to listening to my road rage over the phone that my sister just paused for my rant and then continued her story, no questions asked.
Monday morning or "It's like The Office meets Candid Camera":
The saga at work continues. I kinda snapped this morning. I marched into my boss's office and said, "I figured it out. [Ms. Backache] was hired for a hidden camera show that tests people's breaking points. Am I right? Now that we figured it out can the experiment stop?". My boss laughed, but there wasn't a smile on her face.