If I can take a step back from the weighty topics we usually cover here at Save the Empire, there's a completely minor issue that nonetheless has been niggling at me for the better part of a decade. It's a question, really: how much should I tip the person who cuts my hair?
Perhaps some background is in order. Through grade school, middle school, and early high school I wore my hair in the style classically known as "dork short." Being who I am, naturally I had short hair in the one stage of life where you can really get away with long hair. Nonetheless, sophomore year came and for reasons I can't remember, I decided to grow it longer. Even that wasn't especially long, being what most people would probably consider normal, at least until senior year. But oh, senior year I let it get even longer, and then in the summer before college I committed the cardinal sin of continuing to let it grow.
Now, I know some people look good with long hair. Some people look great with long hair. I am not one of those people. My hair is blond and thin, and the back always seems to grow faster than the front so I invariably wind up with a mullet. Which is exactly what I rocked for three of my four years in college: a mini-mullet. It wasn't a full, Billy Ray Cyrus-esque rat tail in all its glory, but still... it didn't look good. I thought it did, of course, because I was in my introspective, soul-searching phase where I was spending entirely too many walks to class mulling over my place in the universe. I think my naive belief was that girls would subconsciously pick up on the tragic, romantic soul hidden behind my deep blue eyes and want to reach out to the long-haired loner they sensed within. And maybe that kind of Twilight crap works for philosophy majors reading poetry in coffee shops all day, but what I idiotically failed to consider was that I was an athlete, and I hung around with my fellow athletes almost exclusively. Now, this was a swim team, not a football team, and these were among the most intelligent, non-meathead athletes you've ever met -- very much not the insensitive jock stereotype -- but they still were about as far removed from the introspective loner mentality as it was possible to be. Who had time to hang out in coffee shops when you had practice in an hour? Despite all that, I kept my hair long until senior year, when I finally shaved my head for a major swim meet. Purely coincidentally, I'm sure, the second half of senior year was also when I started dating my only real college girlfriend and kicked off my longest sustained dating streak (defined for our purposes as not going longer than a month or two without a date/girlfriend) until meeting Ann.
But it was also early senior year when a friend asked me how much I tipped the person who had just cut my hair, and when I answered two dollars, he replied "Ah, you cheaped out." That gave me pause, and in retrospect he was right- I should've given three, since that was a time when cutting my hair still required some effort. But pretty much ever since the end of senior year, I've kept my hair short. Ann prefers it that way and it's easier for me, and I finally made the hockey haircut/you look unappealing connection, so it's just best for everyone. However, it's also led me to give serious thought to the tipping issue again, for the simple reason that my hair is now the easiest thing in the world to cut. They just use the electric clippers, setting "3" on the top and back of my head and "2" on the sides. I don't have them wash my hair, so they just run the clippers over my dome a few times, trim up the sideburns, and that's it. I have literally had haircuts that took less than five minutes, and going much over ten is a rare occurrence. (Except for that one woman who insisted on trimming my eyebrows, but she was weird.) In most ways this is good for everyone: I don't have to waste much time or make idle small talk for very long, and the haircutter certainly doesn't have to work very hard. But I go to the Hair Cuttery, whose price is $13 a cut. That makes it really tempting for me to just fork over $15, say "Keep the change," and go on my merry way. And I guess technically, that is a pretty crappy tip... $2 out of $13 is, I think, less than 15%. But on the other hand, am I really obligated to tip extravagantly on the easiest haircut they've ever given? When I go out to a fancy restaurant, I tip and tip well, but I don't give a little something extra to the guy who hands me my food at Wendy's, y'know?
So that's my situation. Some visits I tip $2, sometimes $3 if I danced the night before and have singles to spare, but I've never really come to a consensus. If anyone wants to weigh in on this admittedly pathetic dilemma, phone lines are open, call now.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Chocotastic
Molly had her 15-month checkup at the pediatrician today. Aside from the usual (tensing up as soon as she got in the exam room, crying hysterically when she got her shots, forgetting it all when she saw the funhouse mirror at the front desk), we expressed concern to the doctor that she's the same weight she was at 12 months even though she's grown half an inch. The doctor wasn't overly concerned but suggested that we try sneaking extra calories into all of her meals in any way possible; meaning, in essence, we have to do the exact opposite for Molly of what we try to do with all of our own meals. To accomplish this, the doc advised us to "get creative." Naturally, like all good-hearted people, I immediately thought of the immortal words of Dr. Nick:
Dr. Nick: "Now there are many options available for dangerously underweighted individuals like yourself. I recommend a slow, steady gorging process combined with assal horizontology."
Homer: "Of course."
Nick: "You'll want to focus on the neglected food groups such as the whipped group, the congealed group and the chocotastic!"
Homer: "What can I do to speed the whole thing up, Doctor?"
Nick: "Well, be creative. Instead of making sandwiches with bread, use pop tarts. Instead of chewing gum, chew bacon."
Bart: "You could brush your teeth with milkshakes!"
Nick: "Hey, did you go to Hollywood Upstairs Medical College too? And remember, if you're not sure about something, rub it against a piece of paper. If the paper turns clear, it's your window to weight gain!"
Bye, everybody!
Dr. Nick: "Now there are many options available for dangerously underweighted individuals like yourself. I recommend a slow, steady gorging process combined with assal horizontology."
Homer: "Of course."
Nick: "You'll want to focus on the neglected food groups such as the whipped group, the congealed group and the chocotastic!"
Homer: "What can I do to speed the whole thing up, Doctor?"
Nick: "Well, be creative. Instead of making sandwiches with bread, use pop tarts. Instead of chewing gum, chew bacon."
Bart: "You could brush your teeth with milkshakes!"
Nick: "Hey, did you go to Hollywood Upstairs Medical College too? And remember, if you're not sure about something, rub it against a piece of paper. If the paper turns clear, it's your window to weight gain!"
Bye, everybody!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tradition
So instead of me making some longwinded apology, can we just taken it as given that I meant to post a lot sooner, got caught up in a video game, and would still in fact be playing if my Xbox 360 hadn't broken? Yes? Good.
With that out of the way, I have to tell you all (both?) about perhaps the most cherished Christmas tradition in our family. It's relatively new... in fact, it's only been going on for two years, but I have every confidence that it will grow into the hallowed observance it deserves to be. Every year Ann and I wake up, get Molly up and fed, exchange our gifts, then drive over to my parents' house, where we open gifts with them and my sister. Afterward we have brunch, and then in our pancake-induced food comas, we lounge around on couches the rest of the day, watching whatever movies people got for Christmas. Now that my sister and I are older, our parents no longer feel obligated to buy us only G- and PG-rated movies, and thus every year you can count on either my sister or my father to receive at least one of the Farrelly/Apatow/Frat Pack gross-out comedies from the preceding year. All well and good, but where any normal family would have the good sense to save those films to watch when they're alone or with friends, my family does not possess this capacity for self-regulation. So it came to pass that last year, my darling sister suggested we all watch her new DVD Forgetting Sarah Marshall; and when Ann and I, neither of whom had seen it (see: new parents) quietly asked whether it would be awkward to watch with Mom and Dad, were assured that no, it really wasn't that bad. And thus we were treated to Jason Segal's penis, Mila Kunis' bewbs (not complaining, but hard to properly appreciate in front of Mom), lots of sex moaning, and a pretty darn realistic simulation of a BJ. I think Ann got off a little easier, since at least they were just her in-laws rather than her actual parents, but oh, how reminiscent it was of an episode of The Office.
Naturally, this year Ann and I were on red alert, not least because in addition to my parents and sister, we also had my grandfather and great-uncle visiting for the holidays. So when BOTH my sister and Dad opened copies of The Hangover, my heart sank. This time even my sister seemed hesitant, but Dad was committed to watching it (with his dad sitting in the room... go figure), so my sis assured us that as long as we stopped right before the end credits, it would be okay. And that's how we saw Heather Graham's bewb (singular), bare-ass male buttcheeks, and arguably even more swearing and sex talk than last year. I know I'm not in grade school anymore, but if you think you'd be comfortable sitting in a living room with your Grandpa, a great-grandfather, and hearing about how someone's girlfriend got fucked by a waiter on a cruise ship but it's okay because he didn't come inside her, well... you have less shame than I, my friend.
So that's apparently our new family tradition! I'm super stoked, as you might expect. I literally can't wait until next year, when I can only imagine someone will get a copy of 9 1/2 Weeks or Zack and Miri Make A Porno or something, assuming Jenna Jameson hasn't come out with anything new. If I'm really lucky, maybe someone will leak a sex tape of Lindsay Lohan or the like in the next eleven months and we can gather around the fire to watch that as a family. Some folks carol, others attend services... we watch really inappropriate, awkward movies together. It's the spirit of the season!
With that out of the way, I have to tell you all (both?) about perhaps the most cherished Christmas tradition in our family. It's relatively new... in fact, it's only been going on for two years, but I have every confidence that it will grow into the hallowed observance it deserves to be. Every year Ann and I wake up, get Molly up and fed, exchange our gifts, then drive over to my parents' house, where we open gifts with them and my sister. Afterward we have brunch, and then in our pancake-induced food comas, we lounge around on couches the rest of the day, watching whatever movies people got for Christmas. Now that my sister and I are older, our parents no longer feel obligated to buy us only G- and PG-rated movies, and thus every year you can count on either my sister or my father to receive at least one of the Farrelly/Apatow/Frat Pack gross-out comedies from the preceding year. All well and good, but where any normal family would have the good sense to save those films to watch when they're alone or with friends, my family does not possess this capacity for self-regulation. So it came to pass that last year, my darling sister suggested we all watch her new DVD Forgetting Sarah Marshall; and when Ann and I, neither of whom had seen it (see: new parents) quietly asked whether it would be awkward to watch with Mom and Dad, were assured that no, it really wasn't that bad. And thus we were treated to Jason Segal's penis, Mila Kunis' bewbs (not complaining, but hard to properly appreciate in front of Mom), lots of sex moaning, and a pretty darn realistic simulation of a BJ. I think Ann got off a little easier, since at least they were just her in-laws rather than her actual parents, but oh, how reminiscent it was of an episode of The Office.
Naturally, this year Ann and I were on red alert, not least because in addition to my parents and sister, we also had my grandfather and great-uncle visiting for the holidays. So when BOTH my sister and Dad opened copies of The Hangover, my heart sank. This time even my sister seemed hesitant, but Dad was committed to watching it (with his dad sitting in the room... go figure), so my sis assured us that as long as we stopped right before the end credits, it would be okay. And that's how we saw Heather Graham's bewb (singular), bare-ass male buttcheeks, and arguably even more swearing and sex talk than last year. I know I'm not in grade school anymore, but if you think you'd be comfortable sitting in a living room with your Grandpa, a great-grandfather, and hearing about how someone's girlfriend got fucked by a waiter on a cruise ship but it's okay because he didn't come inside her, well... you have less shame than I, my friend.
So that's apparently our new family tradition! I'm super stoked, as you might expect. I literally can't wait until next year, when I can only imagine someone will get a copy of 9 1/2 Weeks or Zack and Miri Make A Porno or something, assuming Jenna Jameson hasn't come out with anything new. If I'm really lucky, maybe someone will leak a sex tape of Lindsay Lohan or the like in the next eleven months and we can gather around the fire to watch that as a family. Some folks carol, others attend services... we watch really inappropriate, awkward movies together. It's the spirit of the season!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Auld Lang Syne
Proper new post coming soon, I promise, but in the meantime: if I may bring out an old cliche, it's funny how quickly life changes, isn't it? Two years ago right now Ann and I were outside a bar in Washington D.C., trying to hail a cab after going out with one of Ann's college friends and her new boyfriend (now fiancee), on our last "young couple" vacation before trying to get pregnant. Tonight? I gave my 14-month-old daughter a bath, put her in her crib, watched "Julie & Julia" with Ann (don't revoke my man card), and sat quietly on the couch in front of my TV watching Dick Clark count down to the New Year. (And wincing when he missed a number. Poor guy.) That is... quite a change, but not one I regret in the slightest.
It's been a long, tough year, folks, but thanks for sticking with me. Here's to a brighter 2010!
It's been a long, tough year, folks, but thanks for sticking with me. Here's to a brighter 2010!
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Remember
Let me first apologize in advance for going back on what I said last time; this won't be a funny post either, but I promise the next one will be appropriately immature. Before that, I just wanted to add a short addendum to my last entry. First, many many thank yous to everyone who offered their condolences to Ann and myself on Facebook. It was an extremely tough experience- I said on Facebook that we lost a good friend, but that undervalues Gizmo's status... for the last six years she was a member of our family, before Ann and I even knew we were going to end up a family. Despite myriad other things contributing to make this a bad week, chief among them painful ear infections for Molly and Ann, we are doing somewhat better now, thank you. I think what's surprised me most about the aftermath is how many little things remind me of Gizmo, even when I'm not consciously thinking of her. It's hard to walk into my den or in that general vicinity of the house, because while I rarely thought of it before, my ears subconsciously tune in, expecting to hear the clanging of metal as Giz scampers to the front of her cage to see if I'm coming to feed her. Now, the silence speaks volumes. The other day I noticed that I hadn't opened the front window shades on my way out in the morning, then realized with a pang that I didn't need to... there's no one to let natural light in for during the day. At class on Tuesday, I saw a stack of the student newspaper and resisted grabbing a handful, because there's no litter tray to line anymore. And that first night, Monday night, was the first time in the years we've lived in this house when I've been home but haven't fed her a handful of hay as my final action before going to bed. So many unexpected reminders. But in a way, I'm glad. Not for the pain... that I could live without. But for the memories. I mentioned last time that I wouldn't think of trading away all the joy Gizmo brought us if it meant we'd be spared the sorrow of the last few days. That remains the case, and the last thing I want to do is forget our bunny. True, the memories are still raw and difficult, and they may stay that way for a while. But I know that in the long term, what we'll remember will be the good times with her, and that's worth a little momentary sadness any day.
Monday, December 7, 2009
In Memory of Gizmo
Hi, everyone. I apologize for the length of time since my last post, and I'll warn you right now that this is not going to be a light, cheery entry. If you'd like, feel free to skip it and wait until next time, when we'll go back to talking about bathrooms or whatever. I won't be offended, I promise. If you're still here, please bear with me, as it's been a very rough day and you'll have to forgive me if I'm not up to my usual standards. The thing is that we had to put our bunny Gizmo to sleep today.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
Sorry. It was tough just writing that, and I'm sure it'll get easier over time, but right now it's still so raw. I don't have much experience with pets -- beyond some fish, we didn't have any through most of my childhood. My parents had gotten a cocker spaniel years before I was born, so I remember being seven or eight and having to say goodbye to him when he needed to be put down... I recall being sad, but I was also so young, and kids are pretty resilient. But since then, Gizmo is the first real pet I've had in my adult life, and my wife and I got her very early in our relationship; in many ways it feels like she's always been with us, an integral part of our life together. Now she's gone, and I'm finding it harder to deal with than I expected.
Ironically, we first got Gizmo in reaction to another death: Bender, the bunny I had purchased for Ann as a holiday present the first year we were dating. She was living in her own apartment and lonely, and I thought a companion would be good for her. Within just a few weeks, we learned the hard lesson of why it's a bad idea to purchase a very young rabbit from a pet store, as Bender died of an unknown illness. That in and of itself was very hard, and I remember Ann and I seriously discussing whether we wanted to try again. Eventually she decided that she was willing to try just once more, and so we contacted a rabbit breeder, who offered to sell us what we were assured was a friendly, outgoing mini lop. And that's how we met Gizmo.
From the very beginning, Giz made it clear that she was both eccentric and strong willed. On the ride back to Ann's apartment from the breeder's, I held her in a cat carrier in my lap, and every time Ann would turn the car, either to the right or the left, Gizmo would rotate a full 360 degrees clockwise. It never failed, it was like she was trying to reorient herself every single time. Cutest thing you ever saw. When we actually got the beast back to the apartment and let her settle in over the next few days, it became evident that "friendly" is all a matter of opinion. Like most rabbits, Gizmo hated to be held or picked up, and while she was never aggressive and didn't bite, she made it quite clear that she was in charge: you would either pet her and groom her and feed her treats on her terms, or you wouldn't do it at all. She liked to chew things as much as any rabbit who ever lived, a trait that led to a few gnawed DVD cases and at least one ruined phone charger before I wised up and started keeping a closer eye on her while she was out. This behavior earned her the affectionate nickname "The Monster," but thankfully Ann and I quickly learned our place in the relationship and everything was fine from then on. As long as you respected her need for personal space, gave her a chair or table to curl up under, and petted her when she was feeling sociable, she'd be happy to scamper along at your feet, make purring noises, and even occasionally do the "happy bunny jumps" that are the hallmark of a truly content rabbit.
And so the years went on: we moved into a townhouse together, giving her lots of room to run around, and eventually welcomed a new addition to our family. I'm sad to admit that over the last year, Giz did not get out of her cage quite as much as in the past. When you have a baby, there's so much random stuff on the floor to pick up before you can let a rabbit out because she'll chew on it all, and once Molly became mobile, the floor had to be scoured after every time Gizmo was out for stray poop pellets, lest Molly do what comes naturally to babies and make an immediate beeline toward anything gross she could put in her mouth. Still, I like to think she remained happy- she still liked to be petted and fed treats, although she was getting older and didn't run around quite as much as before. (She was a little over 6.5 years old; rabbits typically live 8-10 years.)
And then just over a week ago, Ann and I realized that Giz was leaving hay and pellets uneaten in her bowl after feedings, an unheard-of phenomenon. As we learned to our regret with Bender, the natural instinct of rabbits is to hide any signs of illness, because visibly sick animals in the wild are natural targets for predators. What Gizmo couldn't hide was the fact that on the right side of her face, her mouth was drawn up like she was having a permanent muscle spasm. Naturally we took her to the vet, who said he'd never seen that kind of spasming before; he confirmed that it wasn't a problem with her teeth or mouth and suggested that a tumor was a possibility, though he also thought the lack of eating might be due to a respiratory infection. He prescribed some antibiotics and told us to feed her a special critical care food through a syringe inserted into her mouth several times a day, to keep her weight up and hopefully kickstart her digestive system again. So we spent the better part of a week doing that, with several visits to the vet along the way. And at the end of that week, it became clear that the facial spasm wasn't lessening, she was still just barely eating (a couple of carrots, a little applesauce, pretty much none of her normal hay and pellets), and she absolutely couldn't stand the forced feedings, which necessitated wrapping her firmly in a towel (which she hates), holding her off the ground (which she hates), and essentially injecting food into her mouth, much of which she let drop out or didn't seem interested in eating. So Ann and I had to ask ourselves the tough question: was it worth it to continue force-feeding her multiple times every day, a process she loathed and that was not unstressful for us, in hopes of prolonging her life a little longer; or stop doing it, keep making food available and watch as she slowly starves to death; or listen to what she was telling us and let her move on.
So today we brought her to our scheduled vet appointment, knowing we were going to tell the vet that she'd shown no signs of renewed appetite over the weekend, and knowing what he was probably going to say. And indeed, after consulting with two other vets to be certain, he informed us that a tumor pressing on Gizmo's brain had moved to the top of his list in terms of what he thought was wrong with her, suppressing her appetite and causing her facial spasm. He was very kind and gentle in telling us that he thought putting her down was the best option, which I think is what we both expected and had planned for. But planning for it and living through it are two different things, and God, was it difficult. I'm so glad that we let her out of her cage so much this weekend, and that I took as many pictures and shot as much video as I could of her. I'm glad that, as Molly and I were leaving to go to daycare this morning, I impulsively encouraged her to wave "bye-bye" to her big sister Gizmo. (While we expected what the vet was going to say, Ann and I both kind of thought the actual process would take place a day or two later. In retrospect, I'm glad we didn't wait, because it would have made our remaining time with Giz seem like a countdown. As horrible as the whole ordeal was, it's better we got it over with today.) And as rough as it was, I'm glad that Ann and I stayed in the room, petting Giz and whispering to her while the vet put her to sleep for the last time. We both agree that we would have felt even worse if we weren't there with her at the end, reminding her of how much she was loved.
But oh, people, it was hard. Tears flowed freely, only some of which I can blame on my allergies. And while I can't really put it into words, Ann and I both independently felt that as soon as her poor little heart stopped beating, she actually ceased looking like Gizmo. All the little facial movements you don't even consciously notice, and her eyes... immediately after the end came, her eyes just stopped being her. It was clear that Gizmo wasn't in there anymore. And that was tough. We went home, moved her cage to the garage and cleaned her general area because it was painful to look at, and then took her unused food, litter, and toys to a nearby humane shelter, which helped a little. And now, several hours later, here I sit reflecting. I have so many mixed emotions about the whole thing. I'm sorry Molly won't have any real memories of Gizmo, but at the same time a part of me is glad that she's too young to really understand what happened, so she won't have to mourn. One of the things that makes it hard is that Gizmo was still undeniably herself, right up until the end. With the exception of not eating, her behavior was the same as always. I think if she had been clearly in pain or miserable (and I've seen her that way, like when she ate tissue paper once and got really, really constipated), it would have made our ultimate decision much easier; but as it was, even though my conscious mind knows it was the right thing to do, I can't help feeling like I failed her somehow. I know many people believe that animals kind of tell you when it's their time to go, and I do believe that that's what Gizmo was doing with her little hunger strike, but it doesn't make it any easier after the fact. This evening alone I've looked over at where her cage used to be several times, subconsciously expecting to see her there, and even while writing this I caught myself thinking, just for a split second in the back of my mind, that I should pause and let her out of her cage so she can run around while I'm writing. That was a harsh comeback to reality.
I've always said that I believe the death of Gizmo's predecessor Bender served a higher purpose, as the sheer depth of how horrible I felt for Ann made me realize how much I loved her. It's my fervent hope that Gizmo's passing serves a similarly lofty goal that's unknown to us right now. But even if it doesn't, I think her life most certainly did- she made Ann and I, neither of whom ever had a real pet growing up, realize how rewarding and loving they could be. And while Giz's death hurts terribly, and I expect will for some time to come, I still wouldn't trade it away if it meant I'd never have had the chance to spend six terrific years with her.
Goodbye, Gizmo. You were a stubborn, obstinate, wonderful, amazing rabbit whose impact on our lives was greater than I probably even know. We'll miss you more than we can say, and I'm sorry things ended the way they did. But thank you for being the best pet we could ever have asked for. We love you.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
The Roads Not Taken
Every so often I'm reminded of why I could never have ended up with any woman but my wife. And before I get any sidelong glances or angry emails, allow me to clarify: I never, ever forget how much I love my wife, or why she's the perfect woman for me. I can say with absolute honesty that I always remember why I married her. But occasionally it goes a step further, and I'm given a reminder of why it wouldn't have worked with any other woman I've ever known or dated. Of the latter category, some I'm ambivalent toward, but the majority I still like as friends and wish nothing but the best; but boy, would we not have had a future together. Whether they weren't bright enough (I'm not the smartest man alive, but if I have to continually dumb down the conversation, that's a problem), or we were just killing time till graduation, or the only reason they went out with me is because they were amused by my story about accidentally walking in on two Princeton alumni having sex in an empty office during Reunions... well, there's always a reason. I guess it's probably that way for everyone.
I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.
Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.
So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.
I'll give an example of what I mean. There's this woman at work, probably in her late 20's or so. I obviously have eyes for no one but my wife, but I have it on good authority from other men in the office that she could perhaps be described as quite attractive. I don't see it myself, but I suppose if tall, thin blondes with exotic accents, exceedingly... prominent attributes, and who teach aerobics classes at local gyms and colleges are your type, well, you just might be interested. (No lie, this is 100% true- I once happened to be in the break room with another male coworker when she walked through. Once she'd passed, he turned to me and said, "God, she's got an ass that won't quit." I think I gave an eyebrow raise and mumbled something noncommittal, then retreated to my desk trying to remember where I'd parked the DeLorean so I could return home from 1959. You may be pleased to hear that he no longer works at the company.) She's in sales, which is the exact right job for her, because all she has to do is walk into a heterosexual male's office and he'll pull out his checkbook and ask what she happens to be selling and what's the maximum number he can buy. And yet, I can't STAND working on accounts with her. It's entirely possible that she's a very smart person who's simply hamstrung by the fact that English is clearly not her first language, but she comes across as not particularly bright. She never enters any information about new clients in our computer system, forcing you to research them on your own or hope that she's at her desk when you call so you can find something out about this company you're supposed to be calling. She either doesn't know or doesn't explain the products we sell well at all, so invariably new customers don't know exactly what they signed up for or should be receiving. And I just think to myself, she's perfectly friendly and I like her fine as a colleague, but if I get this frustrated working on things she's tangentially touched for only a few hours a week, what would it be like living with her? I'm sure there are those who can make a relationship work based on nothing but looks, but for my part I need the whole package: looks, brains, humor, and compatibility.
Another example: in high school, I had a massive crush on one of my fellow students. I'm quite positive she had no idea and I never did anything about it, but if you'd asked my hopelessly naive 16-year-old self, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman in the world. (Needless to say that was before I ever laid eyes on my wife. Or Elisha Cuthbert.) A little over a year ago they started organizing our 10-year reunion, primarily through Facebook, with the end result being that I ended up friending or being friended by a lot of my old classmates, including her. She still looks good, although I'm glad to be able to truthfully say that there is no comparison between her and my wife. But like all my other classmates, I see her status updates from time to time, and I was both surprised and gladdened recently to note that she's apparently super into the whole Twilight phenomenon, particularly the movie sequel that just came out. Surprised because, well, we're late 20/early 30-year-olds rather than preteen schoolgirls, and gladdened because it confirms to me that, even if I'd gotten up the balls to actually ask her out back in high school, it still wouldn't have worked out. To be fair, I haven't read any of the Twilight books or seen the movies, so I can't fairly critique them; I can offer that they don't sound like anything I'd be interested in and I haven't heard good things from people whose opinions I trust, but who knows, they might be great. Nevertheless, I still can't see myself feigning much interest in them, so I think it's best that I ended up with the woman who rolls her eyes at my own Harry Potter nerdery, rather than one who would drag me along to watch vampires sparkle and write poetry rather than attacking people.
So yeah- while I never forget why I married my wife, I'm also sometimes reminded of exactly why I didn't marry anyone else. Still, whether it be the ones I still like as friends, the ones I don't care for, or the ones who never knew I existed, all of them help me to realize exactly how lucky I am in who I eventually ended up with. For that, ladies, I thank you one and all. Cheers.
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