Etch-a-Sketch

My wonderful, always well-intentioned mother sent me a link to an online Etch-a-Sketch without realizing my deep hatred towards the "toy" (loosely called in my book).

Oh sure, you can make tons of fabulous things like box after box after box, unless you're one of these dexterous people with a lot of free time on their hands:







and then you're making fabulous works of art -- somehow. (I think you're all wizards and warlocks and witches and demons!)

We had etch-a-sketches as a child, and I quickly realized how inapt I was at making anything more than a horizon, a box, and maybe a stick figure. And lots and lots of boxes and lines and more boxes, and when I got really frustrated, many squiggles.

Now, as an adult, this is the most I can do, and I really really tried:




I even saved it the the etchy gallery, and I've deemed this fabulous piece of artwork as "House on the abstract." As you can clearly see, there is a tree, a house with an open window (or a tank with a machine gun poking out an open window we all can't see) and what looks to be like some animal with a broken tail. Based on the demensions of the objects in my fabulous artwork, the animal with the broken tail is huge, and could possibly be a dinosaur recently back from a tussle with a raptor.

Give me a lite brite any day or one of those Wooly Willy magnetic face toys.

(Side note: When did they start making lite brites on "flat screens"? Oh, I am so old.)

Thanks, Mom. Thanks for making me realize what a horrible etch-a-sketch artist I am.

For those of you who like online art things that require no talent whatsoever, visit the Jackson Pollock web site to create your own paint splattered art or play with the Mr. Picasso Head.

Diaper rash ointment works wonders for all kinds of things.

My husband nicked the corner of his mouth while shaving and was complaining about how the little cut wouldn't heal.

I agreed, it sucks to have a little cut at the corner of your mouth that won't heal because of constant eating and yammering.

That night he asked me if we had anything he could put on the little cut to help it heal. He seems to think he's trained himself so he doesn't sleep with his mouth hanging open, and for some reason thinks sleeping with his mouth open is not a good thing, mostly because that means he's slobbering on his pillow. I've caught him plenty of times sleeping with his mouth hanging open and slobbering just as much as Mateo does while teething, so I'm not sure who he thinks he's fooling. I guess his plan was to put something on the cut, and since he sleeps tight lipped, the "something" will help his cut heal.

"I have some lip stuff in my basket," I told him. I have an extensive beauty supply that I hold in an Easter basket I got about 10 or more years ago. My beauty regime consists of foundation, concealer, powder, sometimes mascara, and chap stick I hardly use. What can I say, no fuss, no muss.

For some reason he didn't want to use chap stick.

"Don't we have petroleum jelly or something? For Mateo? Didn't we buy some?" he asked.

"Yeah, but I don't know where it is," I told him. "It might be in his room, but I don't know where."

I think I bought the jelly to put on Mateo's penis after we brought him home from the hospital. It was supposed to help the healing process or protect the wound or something. Then I found out you're not supposed to do that. So I don't think it was ever used.

"Do you think I can go into his room and look for it without waking him up?" he asked me.

I raised my eyebrows in question. "Maybe?" I said. You wake him up, you put him back to sleep, I was thinking.

He was in there for a bit, then came out and into our room.

"I didn't find it. But I figured I'll use his butt stuff since it's basically petroleum jelly and it's supposed to help skin heal!" he told me proudly. He's so...innovative!

I looked up at him.

"Are you sure want to do that?" I asked.

He looked at me. He had his finger pointed upwards with the jelly smeared on the tip.

"Why?"

"Can you be sure neither one of us has put some on our finger, wiped his butt with it, and then put some more on our finger, which would then contaminate the opening of the tube with his butt germs?"

"Oh."

He immediately turned around, went into the bathroom, and washed off his finger.

While he was in the bathroom, I remembered I had moved Mateo's miscellaneous medical stuff into the towel closet when he was old enough to grab things.

On our bathroom counter stands the petroleum jelly. I hope he notice if the surface was broken or not before he slabbed some jelly on his open cut.

Gift cards and why they aren't a good gift. For me. That is.

I'm a hoarder when it comes right down to it. And this is why you should never ever give me a gift card as a gift.

Money isn't so good either. I'll hoard that as well. I can make a twenty last for a good few weeks, I tell you.

Add my son's gift cards to the hoard list. Because you just never know when 20 bucks at Target will come in handy. He still has his gift card from Gymboree his grandparents gave him for Christmas. I almost spent it once. Gymboree was having one of their super sales, and I got the e-mail really early. I hit the online store, started piling clothes in my shopping bag, most of which were for months down the road.

Then, like the good wife that I am, I waited until my husband got to work so I could send him links to everything so he could reject any of my choices. Lesson learned: Don't wait for anyone to get online so you can send links when a fabulous Gymboree sale is going on.

I went to my shopping bag, clicked on the first link, and it came up empty. I clicked on the second link; empty. I didn't get it. So then I went back to the sales page and sorted by the age range of the clothes I wanted to buy.

Yup, that's right, hardly anything came up.

Because I'm a big dummy and waited for my husband, other people snagged my items because nothing is really saved, even if you put it in your shopping bag.

So, long story short, I ended up buying nothing and I still have his gift card and I probably will for some time.

Yesterday was my 9-year wedding anniversary, and for "modern" times, 9 years means a leather gift. I got my husband a new iPod case, made of leather, thank you very much, and he got me an... electronic gift card. For iTunes. Which is great cause I love, love, love music, but not great because it was for 3o bucks (the limit I put on gifts), and 30 bucks means only three albums, and three albums out of a million I could possibly buy means I'm going to hoard, hoard and hoard some more.

My husband specified that I had to buy music for myself since we tend to buy things we both want. All day I was telling him what I could buy (The Lilys, The Microphones, Sun Kil Moon, Wolf Parade, Mum among many), and he was rooting me on, yeah, buy that, yeah, that's good, what about this? didn't you want that?

I never bought anything.

That night he kept bugging me: did you pick something yet? what're you going to buy? what about this?

I never bought anything.

This morning I was close to buying The Microphones, but Mateo woke up and so I abandoned my decision making.

Tonight I'm doing some random listening on Last.fm, and came across Tyler Ramsey, a folk musician whom I'm really digging, so I just bought that, and it's being downloaded right now. Now I only have 20 bucks, which means two albums, and a whole lot of thinking to do. I think I broke my hoarding record though by using a gift card a mere day after receiving it.

Alaska Experiment, or why there is no camping in my life.

I got my husband hooked on The Discovery Channel's Alaska Experiment. If you're unfamiliar with this show, it's basically a bunch of people living in the rugged Alaska wilderness for 6o days while trying not to starve, die of thirst, go crazy (the "cabin fever" episode is really freaky) or get eaten by any one of the various animals that could easily take them down in two seconds.


While watching the "cabin fever" episode, three things were highlighted: one being cabin fever, two being peeing and pooping in a bucket in the kitchen in a cabin, and three being hallucinating while trying to hike 40 miles to visit another group of Alaska Experiment revellers. The hike, by the way, took 7 days. The hiking group thought it would take maybe 1 or 2 days and planned for that and only that (meaning they ran out of water, hence the hallucinations).

If this show doesn't sound even slightly interesting to you, at least watch the "cabin fever" episode. There is nothing like watching people lose their marbles, I tell you, nothing. It's really freaky. The couple in the cabin thought they heard noises and apparitions of people in their cabin (which, by the way, is only 200 square feet). My husband felt the man looked crazy, and kept telling me, "that's the face of a crazy person!!" I didn't quite see it that way. He just looked haggard and tired to me.

The people hiking affected me way more than the couple in the cabin. I watched a show about people hiking up Mount Everest, and it was explained how people hallucinate and lose it because of altitude sickness among other factors. The Alaska Experiment showed it. All three of them lost it, but were close enough to reality that they knew they were hallucinating at the same time. They thought they heard singing coming from the people they were going to visit (they were 2 miles away), and there was lots of maniacal laughter and just nonsense talk. And tons of ice eating, which is bad because it lowers your inner core temperature and you really aren't getting a lot of water to begin with.

And then there was the pee and poop bucket. One couple made an outside outhouse because they didn't want their waste inside their tiny 200 square foot tent cabin. In this episode, they decided to head on over to the ocean to try to get some more protein (clams) before the bad weather really set in. The ocean location they were heading to is where another group lived, a father and his two daughters (don't even get me started on the two daughters, boy howdy, if anyone deserves a few punches, it's those two girls), so when they arrived, the father invited them to spend the night with them.

The father gave them a tour of the cabin, including his own poop bucket setup, which he proudly showed, like he invented indoor plumbing or something. The production people grabbed the visiting man to get his feelings on the inside poop bucket, and he basically said if they want to have human waste right next to where they store their food and cook their food, then more power to them, but you can tell he was completely disturbed by the whole thing (remember, he's the one with the outdoor poop bucket). The kicker to the whole scene was that the visiting man was eating something when the father proudly showed off the poop bucket (which had a big jar of what looked like pee right next to it, so maybe the poop bucket is just for poop).

So because of 1. cabin fever, 2. poop buckets, and 3. hallucinations, my husband thinks he has even more fuel to his "people shouldn't camp" fire. He is not one for camping for many reasons, mainly because he doesn't have his own private bathroom and shower, not to mention butler and chef, and during this episode he kept telling me these were even more reasons not to camp.

I told him that 1. unless he decides to isolate himself in a small space, he's not going to get cabin fever while camping, 2. he would never be pooping in any bucket because I would never poop in a bucket while camping, however, I have used an outhouse, and while it's not pretty and you pretty much have to vie for space with all the flies, you do get used to it (and used to not breathing through your nose), and 3. unless he's taking drugs while camping, or eats some berries he's not supposed to, there will be no hallucinations on my watch.

Girl parties? I don't do girl parties.

Remember that birthday party we went to on Sunday? As we were walking out, the husband of a high school friend of my husband walked out with us. (I know, that's confusing, but I don't like to name names). As we left the house he said, "So M was thinking of throwing a girl party sometime this summer....blah blah blah."

I did a mental check and realized I was the only girl around, so that means he was suggesting I attend this "girl" party.

Let me break it down:

1. These people are my husband's friends and only are my friends by default.
2. I abhor the idea of being in a room with a bunch of girls as girls tend to act crazy and bitchy and I'm sorry, I need a dosage of testosterone in the room with me if I'm around a bunch of girls.
3. I tend to like to hang out with guys more than girls.
4. I don't have much time to myself as it is, so why would I want to spend time that is being given to me by my husband to spend time with his girl friends?

Then the husband of the friend mentioned that his wife, M, was planning on calling the lingerie lady for the girl party. That's when I almost lost it. Me and lingerie have NEVER been friends. Especially now that I'm a rather robust person and I have a toddler in my life who manages to get snot, food and slobber all over my clothes. I prefer my comfy bag lady ensemble to lingerie.

The husband said to my husband that the "men" would take care of the "kids," probably stay out in the backyard or something.

"Can I hang out in the backyard with the men?" I asked. Because really, that's what I'd rather be doing.

Side story: Another friend of my husband was getting married, and the fiancee and he were having a co-ed bridal / groom shower. That's the only reason why I said I would go because while I sorta knew the guy, I really didn't know the girl at all, and all the girls invited I definitely would not know, and I'm just never in the mood to be friendly and make new friends.

So we walked into the house where the shower was being held, and it was full of girls. No guys. Just girls. I felt stupid because I was duped. My husband felt stupid because he was the only guy.

Come to find out, they decided to split the shower, sending the men to another house around the corner to drink and do what men do. Since I understand more what men do than what women do, I was sent off with my husband (much to the annoyance of his friend and all the other males there, I'm sure).

I had a much better time with the guys than I would of had with the girls. Whether or not the guys had a much better time with me than if they were left alone, I don't know and don't care.

End of side story.

In answer to my question about hanging out with the guys, the husband said, "What? Ah, come on!" like hanging out with a bunch of girls, looking at lingerie, drinking booze and having the constant feeling like I have to buy one of these lingerie pieces by the end of the night was a fabulous and fun idea.

The topic got changed because of Mateo and something he did, and the husband, who tends to not be the brightest bulb in the box, forgot what he was saying, but then my husband, who is a polite and nice fellow, brought it up again and told him to tell M to call him.

I think my husband and I both know how I feel about a girl party. So much so, that I didn't even say anything about it on the way home. Neither did he. It's like it was never brought up to begin with....

New tupperware set + husband = love.

Now that Mateo is eating regular food, our tupperware supply seems to have diminished greatly. So there I was in Target a week or so ago, and I walked down the aisle o' tupperware (not really tupperware, but it's easier to say that than "plastic containers with lids" over and over). I spotted a nice set of tupperware with really tiny containers up to regular-sized containers - with red lids!

Since I plan to make my kitchen a fabulous red kitchen some day, and have several red items already, I snatched the set up.

Little did I know that my husband has been waiting for such a set to walk into his life. Little did I know that he's tupperware crazy.

The reason I got this set was because of the really small containers, which are perfect for Mateo's leftovers. The first time I used one, I announced how perfect it was for Mateo's leftovers. Just perfect. Did I say perfect? Perfect!

Then my husband used one. Then another. Then told me that yes, in fact, the really small containers are quite perfect....for his purposes.

All of a sudden everything he needs stored is in a tupperware container. Most of these stored items are in the really small ones, which means there aren't any for Mateo's leftovers. Some have mysteriously disappeared, and I'm thinking he's taken them to work, never to be seen again. He's even gone so far as putting a half eaten cereal bar in a tupperware container.

And I know what he's doing; he's avoiding plastic storage bags like they are the plague because he is a recycling nut who doesn't always follow through with his recycling plans. Or the recycling rules, but now matter how many times I tell him he can't put certain things in the recycling bin for whatever reason, he still does it and insists it's okay.

So with all the small containers mysteriously disappearing daily, I think I'm going to have to buy either another set or the small ones separately (which would only cost more, I think). Father's Day and our Anniversary is coming up...Perhaps a set of 44 pieces would tickle his fancy?

We also have half a lime in a tupperware container. That's how bad it's gotten.

This one goes out to you, Boss Lady.

I'm reading Jen Lancaster's first book Bitter is the New Black, and with the amount of talking she does about herself and looking fabulous, I was curious to find more pictures of her than the few on her blog Jennsylvania. So I googled "Jen Lancaster," clicked on the images button and came across a whole mess of pictures from events she either attended or was there to promote her book.

For whatever reason, this picture caught my eye. So I clicked on the tiny snippet and was brought to this woman's web site. Apparently she likes to read, and even more apparently, she likes to go to book signings and take pictures (I almost used the word "force") with the authors. If you click on most of them, the authors have a weird expression on their face, that says to me, "why do I have to do the book tour and have my photo taken with every numb-nut who stands in line?" If you don't believe me, look here (eek, the head touch), and here (the side sidle, can I take a picture?), and here (he just looks uncomfortable, and since I know he's gay, I'm certain putting her arm around her is like putting an arm around a meat slab (and no, I didn't mean it that way)), annnnnddd finally here (oh, the ever popular, let me stand 10 feet in front of the celeb so it sorta, kinda, okay not really, looks like this is planned).

Now, now...I took a picture with Penn Jillette the last time we were in Vegas (I write that like we go all the time, sadly, this is so not the case and the reason? His name is Mateo and she's also called a mortgage), so I've also done the "I don't care if I will ever know this person, I must get a picture with them" thing - and too bad my husband doesn't know how to focus because the picture came out so blurry it makes me sad to this day.

But that's beside the point - completely. While I did want to write a post about this woman and make fun of her, I then saw this name in her forced author picture list: Nancy Pearl.

I know Nancy Pearl doesn't mean a thing to most people. But she means a whole heck of a lot to us at work. Without going into much detail, my group runs a very small but quite successful library. So successful, in fact, that I wrote an article about it for our intranet site. Yes, this is big time, people. The weekend before the article was due, my boss came in to work with something she bought during the weekend: A librarian action figure:



This action figure is of a very important librarian (I guess): Nancy Pearl. Yes, the Nancy Pearl. Don't act like you don't know who she is. We planned on using her picture with the article, until we chickened out for fear of looking unprofessional (side note, recently another group used an action figure for their article picture - this makes me very sad not to mention jealous because my picture was way better; Nancy was standing in front of the San Francisco skyline!) and so we used a picture of a stack of books.

Stack of books? Nancy Pearl? Nancy Pearl, hands down.

Nancy has become dear to us all. We often make fun of her and her lesbian-looking ways; once I put a push pin in the hand holding the book (yes, it's removable, and it's aptly named Book Lust, which is the name of Ms. Pearl's book, but I'm not sure any of us knew that) so she took on a murderess persona; and my co-worker ran off with her and it took my boss several days before she found her again.

And if the real Nancy Pearl ever googles herself, comes across my blog, reads this and is appalled (although she must have seen it all, being a librarian), then please accept my apologies. You only became a real person to me today.

My kid crushes.

Mateo and I visited my mom for Mom's day. I gave her her much anticipated Mom's day card (I had to redeem myself after the "no cards given at birthday time" fiasco of 2008). For some reason, ever since I bought the card, I thought it was some goofy card about finding a childhood lunchbox on eBay. When I signed the card, I realized I decided (when I must have been asleep at the Hallmark store), to buy the card about searching for "sweet mommas" on the internet and finding porn sites.

So I told my mom about how all this time I thought I had bought the lunchbox one. Then I said I had a Beegees lunchbox.

"You did?" she said. She didn't remember.

And yes, yes I did. I was in love with Barry Gibb, if you must know. I said Andy Gibb during our conversation, but I was incorrect; apparently I don't remember my Gibbs by name.

As a child, I had this weird obsession with men who had facial hair. Not only did I love the lug of a lion maned Barry Gibb, but I was also in love with John Oats, the hirsute of the two men from Hall and Oats. (I must mention that while Barry Gibb doesn't look too horrible now, John Oats got hit by the really big "did not age well" stick.

You might be thinking, did your dad, by chance, have facial hair? Oh yes. He certainly did and still does. And I'm fairly certain that's where my childhood obsession of men's facial hair began.

At some point, though, my obsession of liking men with facial hair turned into NOT liking men with facial hair (except for my dad) or chest hair or back hair or any weird tuffs of hair.

My husband, I must mention, has weird tuffs of hair. On his inner wrist. I call it his gorilla tuffs. They make no sense, and while he does want to wax his chest hair and back hair (the small amount he has), he is very possessive over his wrist tuffs. And he gets mad when I suggest we shave them off.

Social Profile, Compare People, or How to make someone really angry.

I'm an avid Facebooker. I like it. I like updating my books and music and playing Scrabulous with my husband all day long. I'm no longer addicted to Staries, but I do enjoy that as well. Facebook is really neat when the people you know are active users. When they aren't (and I have a few), it gets boring. But I've stuck with it. Every single day.

And then there is the Compare People application from the lovely folks at Social Profile. This application allows users to rate their friends against other friends in categories such as, 'hottest' and 'smartest' and 'who would you want to be stuck on a desert island with.' So I played along, hoping that none of my friends would realize how I voted. Cumulative is okay, but if my husband found out I didn't vote him smartest? Boy howdy, a divorce would be in the works. (I joke...).

Then one day I got an e-mail from Compare People telling me what MY strengths and weaknesses were. Yeah...that wasn't part of the deal.

My rankings are on my page, but I never go and look. So to have an e-mail tell me how my friends feel about me? Man. That's cold. And I don't even know who is doing it because, like I mentioned, most of the people I know don't even go on Facebook anymore. However, my rankings keep changing, and I know this because of all the friggin' e-mails I get telling me so.

Right now, these are my rankings (cause I know you're dying to know):

I am most punctual and most prettiest.

Okay, I am punctual to a fault most times. And since most people aren't punctual these days, I'm often chided for being early to appointments. You know, like I'm trying to pull some sneaky business on people and get in early. I'm fully aware I'm early and have brought supplies to entertain me, so don't you fret.

Prettiest? Jeez. Okay. I say cute, but not prettiest. I'm not going to complain, though, because of this:

My weaknesses are:

Most popular and kindest.

What does that mean, exactly? It's a weakness to BE most popular? And kind? Or that my friends think I'm not popular nor kind? Granted, I don't think I'm popular, although when I suck you into my nuttiness, you'll always come back. I do take serious offense to not being kind. Sure I'm crass and a tad mean and I sometimes just say it as it is and don't think twice about it, but I am kind. I'm kind to those that deserve to be kind.

Maybe that's why I'm not popular.

9 Reasons why I love my local Hallmark.

I went to the Hallmark store today to buy some cards. I'm trying to make sure I break no hearts this coming mom and dad days, and that I actually give my husband an anniversary card since I sorta, kinda forgot Valentine's Day this year. While there, I realized I just loath love the Hallmark store.

Here are my reasons, in no particular order:

• Old people! Omg! How the old people flock to the Hallmark store. Don't they tend to go out earlier in the day? Because those times I've gone grocery shopping around 9 or 10 am on a weekday, there are nothing but old people slowly walking the aisles, getting in the way of shopping carts and asking me to read things for them.
• Geeky teenage boys who for some reason decide to apply to work at a Hallmark store even though they know nothing about cards and trinkets and "collectibles" (term is used very loosely). They are quiet, shy, awkward and don't make eye contact. I suspect his mom got him the job.
• Gold Crown stickers. Why do the cashiers have to ask each person buying cards if they want some? Just give the stupid stickers away. This ties into the old people reason - the cashier asks, "do you want a gold crown sticker?" The old persons says, "What???????????????" The cashier repeats the question and adds, "you put it on the back of the envelope - to seal it." "What?????????????????" This can go on one more time or a few more times, or until the cashier gives up and just gives them the gosh darn sticker.
• Weird old woman who I swear must be a witch because she walked in with half her long, ratty hair tied up to the side of her head with the other part of her hair drooping in foam rollers. The cash register area was a bit clogged up, so she walked 50 mph up behind one of the many old people milling around and said "EXCUSE ME!" and then kept on her way when the old lady moved. When she came back, a patchwork teddy bear caught her eye, she picked it up, probably put a curse on it, put it back and left the store, foam rollers bouncing as she went. Witch or art teacher. You pick.
• Woman with massive purse who had her mind set on looking at the Mother's Day cards right behind me. I moved up a bit to give her room, but instead of reciprocating this nicety, she whacked me in the back, not once, but twice with her stupid gigantic bag. When I turned around to give her the evil eye (I had already been waiting to pay for about 5 minutes and figured I had another 5 minutes of waiting, so my good humor was slowly fading), she didn't acknowledge my existence. I did not exist! I was invisible. However, I was ready to throw some heated words with her, and who was going to stop me? The geeky cashier or the old people?
• The Hallmark collectibles that the old people come in to buy. For some reason, the really "high end" collectibles are taken out of their box and displayed. So if an old person wants to buy it, they have to bring it up to the counter and then wait for the geeky cashier to go upstairs, find the collectible's box, bring it down and repack it. This. makes. no. sense. Just buy two of the stupid things for stock and one for display. Don't sell the display one!!
• Picky collectible buying old lady who is freaked out that there is no bubble wrap around her collectible, which then causes geeky cashier to go BACK upstairs to cut off a chunk of bubble wrap and then come back DOWNSTAIRS to wrap up said collectible. When he put some extra collectible trinket thing in the box, she freaked out because the little thing didn't have a box. And she was taking all the lovely collectibles ON THE PLANE, for gosh darn sake, so make sure those puppies don't break! Like there aren't a bazillion Hallmark stores in every state.
• Old lady who has to find the change to give to the cashier so that she could get even change back. So another 2 minutes of every one's time is lost while the old lady searches and searches for her change, which she can't really see as it is. And then, when the cashier gives her 40 cents back (even!), she drops a dime. So I picked it up and try to hand it to her, but she has no clue that I'm even there, and the cashier is trying to grab the dime from me, like I'm going to drop the dime and grab her other 30 cents she got back and run into the night.
• Cashier who tells me she's stressed out, and when I say it'll get better, she tells me she was off a long time ago, but there is a long line (old people...), so she's stayed, but she's got to get all the way across town by some certain time, and blah blah blah. My transaction was finished really fast -- "do you want Gold Crown stickers?" "No." "Can I see your ID?" Flipped out and displayed lickety split-like." "Sign here." Signed. So when we were finished, I told her, "Hey, at least I was FAST." Ha, ha, guffaws, etc..

And these are the many reasons why I will try Target first when I need cards.

Speaking of hamsters....

I keep thinking about the disaster hamster incident that happened when I as a teenager. For some reason, I decided I wanted a hamster. I think I was 15 or 16 at the time. We've always had pets as kids, and I happen to love to have as many little critters in my life to take care of and get annoyed by.

So I went to the pet store at the mall (remember those? With real live cats and dogs?) and purchased myself a nice female hamster. I don't remember what I called her, but I do remember what I changed her name to....

I kept her in a fish aquariaum. It was this octogan-shaped monstrosity on a stand. She made herself right at home. I was happy to have a new friend living with me.

My friend Brett came over a few days later, and I wanted to show him my new pal. I reached into the aquarium, grabbed hold of my hamster, and all these bloody red things dropped from her underside.

I think I passed out for a second. I thought it was her guts spilling out, and I couldn't understand how her belly opened up so her bloody guts could fall out of her.

That's when I realized they were babies. My female hamster had herself a whole mess of babies, and upon closer inspection, some of them were half eaten.

This was my introduction to wild life.

From this point on, her name was "Mama."

I was freaked out because 1. of the half-eaten hamsters, and 2. I ended up touching some of the living blood red babies. From my previous experience with....oh, nothing, I knew that touching the babies was not a good thing, and that they were probably goners as well.

A day later this proved to be true.

I gathered up my dead hamster baby bodies, put them in jewelery boxes and had a half-eaten baby hamster funereal in my mom's backyard.

Mama raised four babies. I kept two, my sister took one, and my friend down the street took the fourth.

Fairly quickly I knew I had a problem on my hands. I'm not sure how it's done, but if your domesticated hamster happens to have babies, those babies are not, by default, domesticated themselves. So how do hamsters become domesticated? Beats the heck out of me. I had one super nice hamster and two rabid, ready to kill anything that moved hamsters on my hands. They were also very clever and devious suckers as they figured out how to get out of the cages I had to put them in (they soon figured out how to get out of the monstrosity of a hamster aquarium -- don't ask. Devil hamsters?). Once night I heard a ton of racket going on, so I looked, and one hamster happened to be missing. Luckily I found it before it hid. I could have easily lost an eye or two that night.

My sister's hamster was just as bad, not to mention one fluffy little sucker. So fluffy that I was often convinced it couldn't be like one of its devil hamster siblings - until it hissed and bit. Imagine a big tuff of cotton ready to kill you.

I mean, these hamsters were pure evil.

So, without many options left and no love lost, we decided to rally them up and set them loose in a field. While this sounds mean, I think they were a lot happier out in the industrial area field, running free and killing anything in their path.