Tag Archives: Hamsters

This Week in Janice Vol. 2

1 Apr

So I realized that I should probably tell my mom that I’m going to write about her. She doesn’t really know how to use the Internet (see: phone call I received at work in which she said that she couldn’t get Google to load and asked me if websites ever take days off) so it’s not like she would stumble across this blog on her own. Well, unless she did a search for “polio.” Apparently everyone who comes to this blog finds it by searching for information about polio. Anyway, so I thought I should tell my mom what I did. I emailed her to ask her permission.

Janice in 1968

Janice in 1968

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The Internets called and we picked up. Deal.

23 Mar

The only thing I’m going to say about this weblog before I talk about hamsters is that every week, Evan will be joining us for a Q&A session. So unless you are God, or Evan, or the homeless man who sneezed on me, I don’t see how you could turn that down. Even in the 30 minutes it took me to burn my hand with soup, tell Claire about it, and then start a weblog, plenty of questions arose.

What are leeks anyway? Do burns cause wrinkles? Why was the soup so hot? Why does my bottled water taste like shoe polish? Is Claire having an allergic reaction to pigeon sex? How did hamsters hurt my mom’s back?

Here’s the thing. Claire thinks she is excused from choosing the most common dog name ever (ugh. Molly.) because she once named her hamster Caligula. But the only thing hamsters are going to do is hurt you. Take my mother for example. A harbinger of protection; a vessel of grace and love. All she wanted to do was check on Fluffy. How was she supposed to know the damn lab rat was going to go rogue and leap out of the terrarium to scurry under the couch? I don’t know how they do things in Chicago but in Atlanta, when someone provides a nestle of wood shavings, feeds you nut-bricks or lettuce from the garbage, all the while making sure the silver roller-ball at the end of your water bottle is working, you don’t just catapult yourself into the living room. What? Was she supposed to NOT jump up at the sight of a rocketing gray furball flying at her face?

And that’s how pinched nerves happen, people. I don’t need Evan to explain this one.

sigh.