#10 Take Care of a Pet

My family has always been prone to pet ownership. For as long as I can remember, there has always been at least one dog and one cat running around chasing each other and causing a ruckus. Not to mention all of the adopted lizards, frogs, turtles, fish, and rodents my brother and I begged or hunted for as children. We were never quite to Doolittle status, but we pushed the envelope a bit.

So, when I flipped to this challenge, I first contemplated just reliving the best of my many pet stories: my brother and I throwing Jack (one of our many psychotic cats) back and forth across the lawn cause we didn’t like him, Ginger (my grandmas pudgy tabby cat) dragging a full turkey behind Grandma's bed on Thanksgiving because she was (per usual) hungry, Doby (our psychologically unsound dachshund) attacking and then riding on the garage door as it opened, or Eugene (my badass piranha) hunting goldfish for an audience of my friends. But I figured I’d bore everyone except my brother and mom with my random reminiscences. The plan then was to ramble on to you about my roommate’s cat, Guess, and what it’s like to care for her. I was going to describe in detail the protruding tummy, poorly executed litter box habits and dietary schedule of our shy and massive kitty. That was the plan until last Monday.

On Monday I got Lucy.

I know, I know. Most of you are probably bug-eying me and silently (or not silently) shouting to the proverbial heavens “A RAT?!? (unless, of course, your first reaction was “is that a mouse?” In which case I am here to tell you she’s, in fact, a rat. Now you can do the whole “shout to the heavens” thing…). Why on earth would you get A RAT?!?!” The answer is simple: I have no fucking clue. Well, I know I decided within a 10-second window of time that our seemingly innocent trip to PetSmart! was not going to just be for cat food. And I know that everything involved in getting her was an impulse buy birthed from an off-handed mention of Ratatouille. And I know that I love her. So you must love her too.

There is actually quite a bit of planning and buying to do in order to keep a healthy happy rat. I dropped about $75 bucks at the store (sponsored almost in full by my loving bro David), and that was only buying the bare minimum. According to the handy dandy pamphlet I picked up near the rodent section, they need huge cages with exercise wheels, things to chew on, special food, water bottles, a specific kind of bedding, things to climb on blah blah blah blah blah. Case in point: lots and lots of stuff. Jinni and I spent over an hour in that place picking out all the essentials before we lugged it all (and Lucy!) home with us.

Now, I’ve only had Luce for a week from today and I’ve already learned quite a bit. Rats are, contrary to popular belief, kind of kick ass animals to have. They’re cleaner than you might think, they’re smart and very sweet, and you can train them like dogs! I found out how to have her do tricks, how to dance, and even how to be potty trained. That’s right folks, my rat can learn to pee and poop in a specific spot. A little un-real, right?.

The only unfortunate thing up until this point is that they get sick very easily. Tumors, respiratory infections, and foot diseases run at the top of the bill. I experienced the respiratory issue first hand. When we first got Luce we realized that she sneezed a lot, but didn’t think anything of it other than it made her that much more adorable. It wasn’t until Saturday that we noticed a little blood coming out of her nose that we got scared. That’s not normal, right? So I called up PetSmart! and told them what was up. “She probably has a respiratory infection,” they told me. “You need to bring her in to the store vet.”

Luckily, we caught it early and they took care of the expenses (14 day guarantee! Score.) and a week later the little lady is fine. Cleaning her ears inside of my shirt sleeve at the moment, as a matter of fact, and having a grand ole time. And soon I will make things even better for her by getting her a sister! Rats are social creatures and they stay healthier if you give them companions. PetSmart! was out when I went yesterday, but I can get some next week.

Since I’ve just gotten the little lady, there isn’t much else to report. But! I will keep you abreast of the ongoing care tactics and training progress. I’m hoping I can have some cool stuff to show you before too long. And for all of those of you who are hatin’ on me right now cause I have a rodent, you just wait. Unless you are Beth Spencer (I accept that Beth will always hate her),you’ll meet her and fall in love like I did.

Until Next Time,

Atticus

#65-Make up a Pen Name or Spy Name

Secret: My roommate and I want to be spies.

OK, so it's not really a secret. We kinda tell everyone. And honestly, anyone who says they don't or never have wanted to be a spy is a dirty, dirty liar. Who doesn't want to travel the world kickin' ass and knowing EVERYONE'S business??? I'm not going to lie: it would be kind of awesome.

This is a childhood fantasy I am just beginning to relive (you try watching 4 seasons of Alias in a month and a half and not want to be a spy. I mean, really...), but one that I held very close to my heart as a 12-year-old. My fourth grade teacher, Mrs. Halverson, started the obsession when she read us Harriet the Spy during class. You know, the girl in the raincoat following her neighbors around causing chaos? I loved it. I'm pretty sure I went home immediately, begged my mom to buy me the movie and enough notebooks to make my Five Star Trapper Keeper puke. It wasn't long before I knew the movie by heart and was teaching myself Pig Latin as not to get caught like my ill fated hero (yeah, I was clever). My first target? The easiest: my family. I began following them around "spying" on their daily activity. No channel change, smoke break, or shopping spree went undocumented. I was a damn good spy.

But, like most of my childhood endeavors I soon lost interest, the notebooks disappeared to the ether of numerous forced spring cleanings and I moved on to my next creative escapade.

So here I am again, however many years later, being asked to come up with my own spy name?!?! The one base I didn't cover as a kid and now I get the chance. Unfortunately, when I first read the assignment for this week, I was at a loss. Where to begin? There are so many names and combinations of names that I had no idea where to begin.

Thank god for the internet, yeah? Type 'spy name generator' into Google.com and you get 1,400, 000 results. ONE MILLION, FOUR HUNDRED THOUSAND results. Overwhelming much? Luckily, I quickly discovered that most of them take you the same two sites, so I played around with both of them for a while.

The first one you just click a button and a new name comes up every time. Here are some of my favorite: Ivana Tomato, Princess McPerky, Slammer Hardcastle, Stone Handsomeman, and Anastasia Pants. Much like my dream to write the blurbs on the taco bell sauce packages, I now want to be a spy name generator writer. I may not be able to come up with a creative name for myself, but I could come up with some random-ass words to type into a name bank. Ivana Tomato? Really? Awesome.

After the hilarity with the first generator, I moved on to one that generates one based on your real name. Although I highly doubt there was much calculation on the perfect spy name for me, it makes me feel special all the same. I typed in my name, and just to spice things up I opted for a male spy name. They get the better ones anyway (Slammer Hardcaslte? My point exactly).

*click* Drumroll please....

Hell yeah! My new spy name? Atticus Flanagan. Crotchity old Irish guy? Done and done. You shall hence forth refer to me as such. Bad ass.

Well, that was easy. Maybe not the most creative way to accomplish my assignment, but I had fun all the same.

And as for my spying activity from here on out? I may not be able to kick ass like Sydney Bristow and save the world from all the Arvin Sloanes and Sarks out there, but I can do some serious Facebook stalking? I think that counts as spying...yeah? Well, it'll have to do for now. I'll let you know if the CIA ever comes a-knockin'.

-A. Flanagan

Before I'm 12?

I’m 23 years old. I’m reporting this not because I feel there is any real accomplishment that comes with reaching such an age in life (I mean, hell, I can’t even legally get a rental car for another two years) or because I think you may have forgotten (even if you have) or that you desperately needed to know (‘cause I doubt you really do). I’m telling you this because I made a shocking discovery a few days ago at work. One I apparently should have made a long time ago. At least 12 years ago, to be exact.

Being a humble theatre artisan I have found a need, like most of my colleagues, for more than one form of employment in order to pay those pesky monthly bills. I have thus far accumulated three jobs, one of which is the glamorous task of shelving and scanning books every morning in the kid section of the literary retail giant B&N. One particular morning, during my typical routine of tedious alphabetizing and procuring the obnoxious “deedle deeldle dee” of my book scanner-thingy, a title caught my eye: 101 Thing You Gotta Do Before You’re 12! by Joanne O’Sullivan. 101 things? That’s it? I was curious what 101 of my childhood experiences Ms. O’Sullivan had selected for 12 year-olds everywhere to do.

A bit cockily, I flipped open the book. I mean, surely I had done them all. Right? I could have written this book. Right? I took a peek.

#34: Watch the sunrise on the beach. Uh…Ok. Fine. One thing I’d never done. I flipped to a different page.

#73: See The Northern Lights. Well, shit. I flipped again.

And again. And again. Turns out, the modern 12 year-old is expected to do a lot more than I had ever even imagined doing before I was twelve, let alone before now. Talk about epic disappointment. With every flip, my experiential age diminished. I was supposed to do ALL of this before I was 12? Even in the years since I hit that easily forgotten landmark in life, my accomplishments were scarcely published within the pages of this book. I couldn’t believe it. I was shocked (shocked!) to make this discovery. Suddenly the kid scanning a Goosebumps book across the aisle from me seemed significantly cooler than my highly under-experienced 23 year-old self.

Was I OK with this? Uh, no. Did I want to do something about it? A resounding yes. I started looking at each page (off the clock of course! :) ) and reading about each of the things. They were actually quite interesting. I mean, there was a mild dose of lameness to some of them, but c'mon. What's being twelve without being a little lame, right? I needed to investigate these tasks a little further. Ignoring the mildly judgmental glance from the bookseller, I impulse-bought my new find.

So! I present you with the point of all of this. In the ridiculously small amount of free time I have between my five billion jobs and responsibilities, my intense spouts of ADD, and the little sleep I get, I am going to attempt to do everything in this book. All 101 of them. I want to share all of this with you in this journal (#25-Start a Journal, check) and maybe you can try out one or two yourself. It could be fun? Yeah?

And so, here with my pirated internet and Taco Bell cup filled with White Zinfandel (classy, I know...), I take one giant step for lame 23 year-olds (or 30, 40, 50 year olds, whatever) everywhere and am starting a whole new to-do list. Maybe once I’ve checked them all off, I can walk into the kids section with my head held high again. Maybe…