Just Call Me J. Diddy

Joelle said at some point on October 2, 2008

Apparently, I rhyme. Not all the time, but sometimes I rhyme. This was something I never knew about myself until a friend pointed it out.  When Kathy was here, even she agreed.  I just naturally rhyme; it’s not something I foresee. I can’t do it when I write, it’s like I’m trying too hard. It comes off trite, like a greeting card.

But I do it when I talk and I have no idea why. Is it because I sing? It’s not like I try. Should I have been a writer? I guess I already am. Should I have been a rapper?  I don’t have big enough pants.

Ok, that last one was a stretch.

But I guess I really do rhyme when I talk and now I can’t stop hearing it.  I have to acknowledge when I rhyme now… “I was rhyming.” like anyone else gives a shit.  But I guess people do, who knew? It’s not like I notice when others rhyme, it’s not my business. I don’t have the time.

See? Right then I wasn’t even trying.  *sigh*

A Bunny Breakfast!

Joelle said in the early morning on September 30, 2008

Bunny Rearing and the Single Girl

Joelle said at some point on September 29, 2008

As you may have noticed I’ve been a bit quiet lately. Mostly I’ve been working to get caught up by October 1st, so I can start fresh with our new season without any lingering projects. Of course, that didn’t happen, but a girl can dream. I’m close, I say!  Close!  I’m working on getting Put Down the Donut™ back online, too, which is pretty exciting.  If I write up a review for one more exercise DVD, I might just lose a pound or two… heh.

I’ve also been consumed with bunny-rearing.  There have been many new developments since I last posted about Lulu.  Firstly, she wasn’t 8 weeks old when I got her from the breeder.  After having her 2 weeks, (so 10 weeks old by my count), I took her to the vet for a well-bunny check-up, to make sure she didn’t need any shots, confirm her age, weight and general health.  I found out that she likes to ride in the car (the vibrations put her to sleep), she doesn’t like the sound of parrots (my vet is an avian and exotic animal vet) and she was still under a pound in weight (she was weighed in a tupperware container!). 

The doctor checked her out and said she appeared to be healthy. I told him, somewhat ashamed, since I know how many rabbits need adopting out there, that I got Lulu from a breeder at the swap meet.  (This is something I’m also kind of embarrassed about, since seriously… what kind of naive doofus gets their bunny from the swap meet, no questions asked? What, am I eleven-years-old?) Anyway, the nurse and the doctor exchanged looks and I felt extra silly. But that didn’t stop them from cooing over her cuteness.

So I asked two questions:  1) what kind of rabbit is she? (The breeder told me a Netherland Dwarf, which only grow to 3 lbs or so.) and 2) how old is she really? (Because I just had this feeling about it...) Well, the vet openly laughed when I said the words “dwarf rabbit”.  He apologized, but said that it’s a “thing” with this guy at the swap meet.  I guess the breeder pulls the bunnies at 4-6 weeks (when 8 weeks is the minimum age to wean from a mama rabbit), then tells everyone they’re 8 week old dwarf bunnies because they’re so tiny.  The vet said he thought based on the size and weight of her, that Lulu was only 6-7 weeks old (a little over 7-8 weeks, as I type this).

Apparently this breeder also has been known to sell bunnies with intestinal parasites and the vet told me that they’ve even lost a couple of this guy’s bunnies (lost as in dead, muerto, bunny heaven), which didn’t do much for my new bunny owner anxiety.  So we ran some tests on her poop (which I delivered in a Ziploc bag… how glamorous! Where’s my Cosmo?) and she’s fortunately just fine.  He also said it was unlikely she’s a Netherland Dwarf.  There’s a chance she might be a dwarf mix of some kind, but he’s fairly certain she’s just a garden-variety bunny, of which there are many, many varieties. It won’t be until she’s older that we’ll be able to really tell.  So there’s that.

To say I was angry about the breeder is an understatement. I was furious, not for me (though a 6- or 7-pound rabbit isn’t what I had in mind), but for Lulu.  She should never have been taken from her mama rabbit so young. She didn’t have enough time to develop all the immunities she needs, which can be a cause of the parasites, the vet said.  It made me sad for her.  And I felt stupid and duped and naive and generally pissed off.

But, I love Lulu and I’m committed to her. I went to BunnyFest on Saturday and saw rabbits on leashes. Leashes! And they were loving the grass, hopping all around and investigating all the goings-on.  I didn’t take Lulu, she’s still too young yet, but next year I may. (I know, I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth either.)

She has, however, almost outgrown her little bunny condo. It won’t be long now… one more growth spurt and that’ll be Craigslisted.  I went out this weekend and got her a gate-like pet pen which will eventually become her new home.  Watching her run around and sprint and do hoppity bunny dances made me so happy, which was the weirdest thing. I was just so happy I could give her what she needed. Watching her try to run around and play in that cage was killing me. She needed more space… and now she has it.  I sacrificed my dining area, storing my World Market table and chairs under my bed and replacing it with a moderate eyesore, but she’s happy, so strangely, I am, too. It’s ain’t stylish, but it’s worth it.

And she hasn’t peed on my green bamboo mat from Thailand yet, so hey… there’s that, too.

The Seventh Day

Joelle said in the early afternoon on September 23, 2008

Sunday morning I went to Target.  That’s my usual Sunday morning destination. I like to get in there before it gets busy, when it’s still quiet and the shelves are full.  It’s kind of like church, staring at rows upon rows of Glade CandleScents or fabric softener or whatever.  This Sunday it was shampoo that had me enraptured. I was trying to decide between color-protection and curl-care when I was approached by a very tall, imposing, but non-threatening, Pacific-Islander looking guy with a wiley quasi-fro and a newspaper open in front of him. 

“Excuse me”, he said, “Have you found Jesus?”

I said, smiling, “I wasn’t aware he was missing. Did you check with customer service?”

He kind of furrowed his brow for a sec, then his face burst into this huge grin and he said, “You know, that’s the best ‘no’ I’ve heard all day. Hey, do you know what time the Eagles game starts?” He didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m not a sports fan, really” I said, as I started to inch down the aisle in that “yeah, great, it’s been real, best of luck to you” kind of way. 

And he replies, “That’s what Sundays are made for!” and walked off.

I never did figure out why he had the newspaper open in front of him. I’m guessing it was the sports section, I just didn’t want to look. 

It’s Not a Cookie

Joelle said around lunch time on September 13, 2008

When I was a kid, my mom used to shop at a local natural foods store (which was a lot more granola back in the ‘80s, if I recall). Whenever we went together, she’d let me get a fig bar (or sometimes they were apricot), like a fig newton, only the “cake” part was made from whole wheat that was more like a bran muffin than cake.  As a kid, I grudgingly accepted this sweet offering because I knew it was a fig bar or a big bag of nothing at all.

I recently went back to this store for the first time since I was a kid and as I was cruising the bulk bins for raisins for Lulu, there they were… the fig bars in the square plastic container with the bakery sticker on them: Whole Wheat Fig Bars.  As pricey as the were ($5.29/lb?  Seriously?) I snatched them up and later on that day, busted the container open. Suddenly, I was six years old again.

The smell of the fig bars completely transported me back to my childhood. It was so *weird*, I wasn’t expecting such a tactile memory. And eating that first one was like riding in the rusty metal shopping cart kid’s seat, swinging my legs and grinning at everyone who happened to look in my direction.  I remembered stuff my mom would wear to the store, the color of the scarf on her head, her yellow t-shirt…

I have been struggling lately to remember things about my mom. The actual memories, aged over the last 24 years, get blurred with photographs and other people’s stories and I’ve started forgetting how she moved and sounded.  To be honest, I started forgetting a while ago which I’ve been trying to deny to myself, but it’s started coming up more for me now that I’m around the same age she was when she had me. 

So this weird fig bar moment was more than just a snack, it was a revival of something I thought I’d forgotten, a connection to something I thought was lost.  Funny how things sneak up on you when you don’t expect them… like the scale if I don’t stop eating these fig bars.