Doing Time at the Rat House by Roberta Beach Jacobson I won't reveal the maniac's name, but I will tell you his hamsters were called Hammy and Hamilton. I've been known as a dog lover, a cat lover. I am in no way anti-pet. But rats in the bedroom are not pets and that's where my boyfriend's beloved hamsters lived. I knew there'd be trouble from the moment I saw--and smelled--that cage, which I came to call the "rat house." If you've had more traditional pets (read cats and dogs) and have never been around hamsters much, let me clue you in. These are creatures that can pee 24 hours a day and can stink up a place to make you think you've walked into great-grandpa's outhouse by mistake. This is not to say the rat house was never cleaned. Quite the contrary. My boyfriend was a regular hamster nerd and was meticulous about changing the hamster's bedding and scrubbing the cage. It's just that he was no match for the likes of Hammy and Hamilton. Hammy and Hamilton were both boys or at least that's what the pet store guy assured my boyfriend when he made his proud purchase. But he lied. Hammy and Hamilton became the proud parents of numerous little squealers and they all peed 24 hours a day in their happy little hamster house atop our dresser. Soon, the little hamster house expanded into an entire complex occupying much of the bedroom. Some cages were metal, others Plexiglas. All had one thing in common, the stench. For me, sex was out of the question. How romantic is eau de outhouse? I am not an unreasonable person. After all, I put up with my boyfriend's knuckle- cracking, hideous laugh and bony knees. I loved him, my first boyfriend. I wanted to make things work for us. I didn't care that he had bad hair, some skin problems, a rotten job. I married him, yes, I did. It was a cold December Saturday that we became husband and wife. Till death do us part. The honeymoon was brief and from the moment I moved in with him, all my clothes smelled like hamsters. My hair smelled like hamsters. Don't think for one moment I was blind to the glances from the people at work. I too had a rotten job. I was a switchboard operator and worked overtime to avoid facing our apartment where even the curtains smelled like hamsters. There was no end of hamsters in sight, as even the babies of babies were having babies. When I thought about our future, all I saw were little hamster faces. How I longed to have a normal husband who owned a poodle or a Siamese cat. I knew I was getting more miserable with each new cage that appeared in our midst, but I felt there was no way out of my hamster hell. There were, of course, far too many creatures for an accurate census. A true hamster maniac, my husband spent weekends building even larger cages, installing more wheels, creating little climbing blocks. He was convinced he could increase their IQs by providing a more stimulating living environment to nurture them. Where I saw a rat house, he envisioned a hamster palace and nothing was too good for his pesty little pets. He seemed oblivious that our hamster population was exploding beyond belief. He just kept buying larger boxes of food and enough hay to keep a pony content. New hamsters came along and the next cages soon appeared filled. (Hamster birth control, you see, is unknown, even in modern times.) Though their true genders may never be known, Hammy and Hamilton did establish quite a hamster legacy. That much I'll admit. As for me, I made the rather wise decision to ditch both the husband and his stinky pals in the rat house. I now enjoy a hamster-free life. © 2002 by Roberta Beach Jacobson. All Rights Reserved. Roberta Beach Jacobson left Chicagoland for a European vacation in 1974 and never returned. She makes her home on a remote Greek island, where she writes essays, greeting cards, Haiku and travel features. Roberta's web site. Read another piece by Roberta in the Naked Humorists Archives. |
I'll Never Forget What's His Name by Jillian Leslie Life seemed amazingly simple when my husband Paul and I were in our early twenties and in full possession of our brain cells. If a memory escaped me, all I had to do was ask Paul a question, watch him crinkle his forehead in concentration as he fired a few brain cells into retrieval mode and--presto!--he had the correct answer in a flash. Question asked, question answered. End of subject. In our twenties, a typical conversation would go.... Me: "What was the name of that wound up actor in The Deer Hunter? You know, he played the soldier who went nuts when he was tortured as a POW in Vietnam and after the war he played Russian roulette for fun and profit? Paul: That was Christopher Walken. Me: Oh, that's right! Thanks. Once we hit our late thirties, our brains slowly and insidiously became clogged and constipated. When asked a question, the only way we could extract an answer was to apply a virtual brain plunger, clamp the suction tightly in place, and with the strength of ten men, plunge repeatedly until an answer would pry itself loose from the echo-filled abyss (where trivia answers reside) and grudgingly reveal itself. Here's the scary part: often a few days after asking a question, we'd forget the answer and have to ask the same question again. This time, the typical conversation would be more of a head-scratcher: Me: Who was that guy in that movie--I can't remember the name of the movie--you know, the Vietnam epic with Meryl Streep. Who was the hyper guy who went nuts? Paul: That was..give me a minute...DeNiro, no... Christopher something. Me: Yeah, Christopher something! What's his last name? Let's go through the alphabet and see if we can remember. Somehow I remember his last name began with a letter near the end of the alphabet. A half hour later, out-of-the-blue.... Paul: Hmm, I think his name has to do with transportation. Yeah, something like rider or sitter... wait! It's walker. Christopher Walker. No, that's not right. Walken! Christopher Walken. Me: Bingo! In days of yore, when Wooly Mammoths roamed the earth, we kept lists and scribbled notes--notes we'd promptly file and lose. So the question-agony-answer cycle was doomed to repeat itself. The day we bought a computer was a great day, indeed. We discovered databases. We created a "Senile File" and the first name entered was--you guessed it--Christopher Walken. Whenever we had a question, no matter the topic--we'd consult the Senile File knowing the answer, despite the nature of the question, stood a decent chance of being--you guessed it--Christopher Walken. The years passed and so evolved the Internet. We evolved, or should I say dissolved, into the dawn of our 50s. Our brains took a mocking journey of their own. Me: Who was the crazy guy in that movie? Paul: What guy? What movie? Me: You know. The movie about that war with that super intense actor who always plays hot-headed characters so brilliantly? Paul: We've seen hundreds of war movies with hundreds of intense actors. Can you be more specific? Me: Specific about what? Paul: What's for dinner? Generations X, Y and beyond are lucky. They have no need for a senile file; instead, they sign on to the Internet and summon their omnipresent butler, Jeeves, or one of his pals, Ms. Google or Mr. Lycos and friends, to spare their yet-to-be-taxed brains the agony of fruitless thought and to produce answers for them, about any ol' topic, cheetah-quick. Since Paul and I use the Internet daily, too, we no longer worry about forgetting Christopher Walken's name. Who's Walken? You know...He played that guy who was in that war movie The Deer Killer...or was it The Deer Slayer? Drat! I'd better check to see if Christopher Walken has a Web site. I'm sure the name of that film will be listed somewhere. © 2002 by Jillian Leslie. All Rights Reserved. Use or distribution of this material is prohibited without explicit permission of the author. Jillian Leslie leads a double life. By day, she owns and operates the Web site Everyday Warriors, a gathering place for kids and adults who battle chronic illness or physical or mental disabilities. Pop in and visit her site, or e-mail her at webmaster@everydaywarriors.com. In her other life she is a freelance journalist. Her work has appeared in Family Circle Magazine, Bed and Breakfast Journal, Oregon Coast Magazine, Oregon Parks Magazine and Northwest Travel Magazine. You can also read her author interviews and book reviews at One Woman's Writing Retreat . Jillian has been married to Paul for the past 29 years, her love and the unwitting participant in her essays. She is owned by a sheltie, Doodles (a nickname to protect the furry); a border collie, Salami (more protection); a Monopoly playing cockatiel, Howie Birdell; and a betta, Confufush IV. (Don't ask what happened to the other three.) |
I'll Never Forget What's His Name by Jillian Leslie Life seemed amazingly simple when my husband Paul and I were in our early twenties and in full possession of our brain cells. If a memory escaped me, all I had to do was ask Paul a question, watch him crinkle his forehead in concentration as he fired a few brain cells into retrieval mode and--presto!--he had the correct answer in a flash. Question asked, question answered. End of subject. In our twenties, a typical conversation would go.... Me: "What was the name of that wound up actor in The Deer Hunter? You know, he played the soldier who went nuts when he was tortured as a POW in Vietnam and after the war he played Russian roulette for fun and profit? Paul: That was Christopher Walken. Me: Oh, that's right! Thanks. Once we hit our late thirties, our brains slowly and insidiously became clogged and constipated. When asked a question, the only way we could extract an answer was to apply a virtual brain plunger, clamp the suction tightly in place, and with the strength of ten men, plunge repeatedly until an answer would pry itself loose from the echo-filled abyss (where trivia answers reside) and grudgingly reveal itself. Here's the scary part: often a few days after asking a question, we'd forget the answer and have to ask the same question again. This time, the typical conversation would be more of a head-scratcher: Me: Who was that guy in that movie--I can't remember the name of the movie--you know, the Vietnam epic with Meryl Streep. Who was the hyper guy who went nuts? Paul: That was..give me a minute...DeNiro, no... Christopher something. Me: Yeah, Christopher something! What's his last name? Let's go through the alphabet and see if we can remember. Somehow I remember his last name began with a letter near the end of the alphabet. A half hour later, out-of-the-blue.... Paul: Hmm, I think his name has to do with transportation. Yeah, something like rider or sitter... wait! It's walker. Christopher Walker. No, that's not right. Walken! Christopher Walken. Me: Bingo! In days of yore, when Wooly Mammoths roamed the earth, we kept lists and scribbled notes--notes we'd promptly file and lose. So the question-agony-answer cycle was doomed to repeat itself. The day we bought a computer was a great day, indeed. We discovered databases. We created a "Senile File" and the first name entered was--you guessed it--Christopher Walken. Whenever we had a question, no matter the topic--we'd consult the Senile File knowing the answer, despite the nature of the question, stood a decent chance of being--you guessed it--Christopher Walken. The years passed and so evolved the Internet. We evolved, or should I say dissolved, into the dawn of our 50s. Our brains took a mocking journey of their own. Me: Who was the crazy guy in that movie? Paul: What guy? What movie? Me: You know. The movie about that war with that super intense actor who always plays hot-headed characters so brilliantly? Paul: We've seen hundreds of war movies with hundreds of intense actors. Can you be more specific? Me: Specific about what? Paul: What's for dinner? Generations X, Y and beyond are lucky. They have no need for a senile file; instead, they sign on to the Internet and summon their omnipresent butler, Jeeves, or one of his pals, Ms. Google or Mr. Lycos and friends, to spare their yet-to-be-taxed brains the agony of fruitless thought and to produce answers for them, about any ol' topic, cheetah-quick. Since Paul and I use the Internet daily, too, we no longer worry about forgetting Christopher Walken's name. Who's Walken? You know...He played that guy who was in that war movie The Deer Killer...or was it The Deer Slayer? Drat! I'd better check to see if Christopher Walken has a Web site. I'm sure the name of that film will be listed somewhere. © 2002 by Jillian Leslie. All Rights Reserved. Use or distribution of this material is prohibited without explicit permission of the author. Jillian Leslie leads a double life. By day, she owns and operates the Web site Everyday Warriors, a gathering place for kids and adults who battle chronic illness or physical or mental disabilities. Pop in and visit her site, or e-mail her at webmaster@everydaywarriors.com. In her other life she is a freelance journalist. Her work has appeared in Family Circle Magazine, Bed and Breakfast Journal, Oregon Coast Magazine, Oregon Parks Magazine and Northwest Travel Magazine. You can also read her author interviews and book reviews at One Woman's Writing Retreat . Jillian has been married to Paul for the past 29 years, her love and the unwitting participant in her essays. She is owned by a sheltie, Doodles (a nickname to protect the furry); a border collie, Salami (more protection); a Monopoly playing cockatiel, Howie Birdell; and a betta, Confufush IV. (Don't ask what happened to the other three.) |
Once we hit our late thirties, our brains slowly and insidiously became clogged and constipated. |
Doing Time at the Rat House by Roberta Beach Jacobson I won't reveal the maniac's name, but I will tell you his hamsters were called Hammy and Hamilton. I've been known as a dog lover, a cat lover. I am in no way anti-pet. But rats in the bedroom are not pets and that's where my boyfriend's beloved hamsters lived. I knew there'd be trouble from the moment I saw--and smelled--that cage, which I came to call the "rat house." If you've had more traditional pets (read cats and dogs) and have never been around hamsters much, let me clue you in. These are creatures that can pee 24 hours a day and can stink up a place to make you think you've walked into great-grandpa's outhouse by mistake. This is not to say the rat house was never cleaned. Quite the contrary. My boyfriend was a regular hamster nerd and was meticulous about changing the hamster's bedding and scrubbing the cage. It's just that he was no match for the likes of Hammy and Hamilton. Hammy and Hamilton were both boys or at least that's what the pet store guy assured my boyfriend when he made his proud purchase. But he lied. Hammy and Hamilton became the proud parents of numerous little squealers and they all peed 24 hours a day in their happy little hamster house atop our dresser. Soon, the little hamster house expanded into an entire complex occupying much of the bedroom. Some cages were metal, others Plexiglas. All had one thing in common, the stench. For me, sex was out of the question. How romantic is eau de outhouse? I am not an unreasonable person. After all, I put up with my boyfriend's knuckle- cracking, hideous laugh and bony knees. I loved him, my first boyfriend. I wanted to make things work for us. I didn't care that he had bad hair, some skin problems, a rotten job. I married him, yes, I did. It was a cold December Saturday that we became husband and wife. Till death do us part. The honeymoon was brief and from the moment I moved in with him, all my clothes smelled like hamsters. My hair smelled like hamsters. Don't think for one moment I was blind to the glances from the people at work. I too had a rotten job. I was a switchboard operator and worked overtime to avoid facing our apartment where even the curtains smelled like hamsters. There was no end of hamsters in sight, as even the babies of babies were having babies. When I thought about our future, all I saw were little hamster faces. How I longed to have a normal husband who owned a poodle or a Siamese cat. I knew I was getting more miserable with each new cage that appeared in our midst, but I felt there was no way out of my hamster hell. There were, of course, far too many creatures for an accurate census. A true hamster maniac, my husband spent weekends building even larger cages, installing more wheels, creating little climbing blocks. He was convinced he could increase their IQs by providing a more stimulating living environment to nurture them. Where I saw a rat house, he envisioned a hamster palace and nothing was too good for his pesty little pets. He seemed oblivious that our hamster population was exploding beyond belief. He just kept buying larger boxes of food and enough hay to keep a pony content. New hamsters came along and the next cages soon appeared filled. (Hamster birth control, you see, is unknown, even in modern times.) Though their true genders may never be known, Hammy and Hamilton did establish quite a hamster legacy. That much I'll admit. As for me, I made the rather wise decision to ditch both the husband and his stinky pals in the rat house. I now enjoy a hamster-free life. © 2002 by Roberta Beach Jacobson. All Rights Reserved. Roberta Beach Jacobson left Chicagoland for a European vacation in 1974 and never returned. She makes her home on a remote Greek island, where she writes essays, greeting cards, Haiku and travel features. Roberta's web site. Read another piece by Roberta in the Naked Humorists Archives. |
For me, sex was out of the question. How romantic is eau de outhouse? |
