Hilary's Zoo

Flu

You know what my favorite ever Christmas present was?  The flu.  Which is what I got this year.  A mutant flu bug had a Christmas party with my immune system and got it drunk, basically.  Then, my hungover immune system was like, "oooh.  On vacation over here.  You just keep sweating and hacking your lungs up.  Until I feel like saving you."  Which was NEVER.  I'm still coughing.

Obviously, the moment I woke up feeling like an extra in Contagion, I hopped into a car, locked the doors and windows, and spent seven hours breathing on my parents and brother while we made our way to my sister's hunting lodge  yurt  house in the woods of central Virginia.  I spent the next six days curled up on the only couch in the place, coughing and sweating and drooling into her couch cushions.  The holidays are a time for sharing.

Nobody caught my Mayan Apocalypse flu bug, miraculously (except possibly my brother in law.  But he's only been married into this family for a year.  He's still in the hazing period, so it's okay to get him sick).  I was especially worried that the fat and tiny Niecus Obesus (say it: KNEE-SUSS O-BEE-SUSS) would get her first flu from me, but she did not.  Let me tell you what she got, instead.

The thing about infant babies is that they aren't real humans yet.  They can't talk.  They can't text.  They can't get their own Cheetos from the kitchen, dammit, and leave mine alone.  And their intestines are, um, testy (haha!).

It's true.  Babies don't poop on a normal schedule, and this can make their parents hyper stressed.  During the first three days that I lay dying on my sister's couch, 90% of the conversation happening around me went like this:

"Did she poop yet?  No?  Is she farting a lot?  How does her tummy feel?  Does it feel bloated?  Oh, she just grunted!  Check her diaper!  Any poop?  Not even a skid mark?  Huh.  Here, give her some organic pumped Mom milk which I've mixed with prune juice.  Give her some mushed peas.  Give her a pizza crust.  Anything!  Give her a warm bath.  Rub her belly.  Squeeze her belly.  DON'T SQUEEZE HER SO HARD!  You'll give her brain damage!  She farted again.  Did that sound different from normal?  Is her skin a healthy color?  Let me call the nurse.  The nurse said she's probably fine.  What does "probably" mean???  Did she poop yet?"

Meanwhile, Niecus Obesus was being treated like a veritable WMD.  At any moment, there were approximately seven adults present to take control of a squirrely Niecus warhead.  Between Christmas and the new year, she didn't touch the ground.

Niecus persisted in her strike.  I guess she likes having a clean diaper.  This was unfortunate for her parents firstly, because they had to worry.  It was unfortunate for the rest of the family second, because we had to feel nervous about whether or not Niecus had pooped, even though we had a small inkling in our brains that it was very likely okay that the Niecus had not pooped.  If you've ever spent time with new parents, you quickly learn that "logic" and "probability" and "range of normal [insert noun here]" lose all meaning.  Everything is an emergency, ESPECIALLY A BAD BABY WHO WON'T POOP.

Thirdly, it was very bad for the unfortunate Niecus Obesus, whose mother very suddenly had had enough.

First, some Flu Facts and Context:  there are a lot of things about having the flu that make you feel like taking ALL of the Nyquil and being done with it: Cold sweats.  Cactus throat.  The odd feeling of imminent spontaneous atomic dispersal you feel every time you dare to rise up and stand on your feet.  Honestly, though, the absolute worst thing is that your sleep schedule is no longer a "schedule".  You sleep until 2 p.m. because if you get up any earlier, the ache inside your ear will make you smash your head through the bathroom mirror.  But then you can't get to sleep until 4 a.m.

It was in the midst of this sort of upside-down sleep cycle that I found myself slouched on the sofa, Zombiefied from dextromethorphan at 12:30 a.m. on a Saturday, robotically scrolling through the internet and wondering how hard you have to cough to burst a blood vessel in your brain and die.

I heard a door open.  My sister marched into the living room and literally tossed the Niecus into my nest of blankets and plague.  I caught her and started to explain why some websites are funny and others are not.  She was quickly seized from my grasp again and placed onto a makeshift changing station on the floor.  I watched, woozy, as the Niecus was de-diapered.  Then, before I could process what was happening, the Niecus' mother, my small sister who has always been much shorter than me and who I had always deemed non-threatening, administered to my Niecus...A SUPPOSITORY!  NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I couldn't even react to this treachery before my sister gathered up the suppositoried Niecus and handed her back to me.  Then left the room.

There we were.  Me and Niecus, on the couch of doom and mucous.  I was holding the Niecus aloft and staring at her, and she was staring, placidly, right back at me.  She squawked a tiny squawk.  I took this for a volley of battle and replied, "don't you dare!"  She kicked her little feet in the air.  She drew her nubby little knees up to her chest.

Me: "Niecus O-BEE-sus!  Do not!"

Niecus: [kick kick]

Me: "....don't."

Niecus: [TTTHHHHHHHHBBBBBPPPPPPPPPTTTTHHHHHHHHtttthhhbbbppppbbtttthhhh!!!!]

PANIC!  My arms shot out as I locked my elbows and moved Niecus as far away from my person as possible.  I had heard stories of Niecus' previous bowel movements, which included details like "poop seeped up her back, it was so explosive."  I was sick, so sick that I felt like someone had dug my dead body up out of the ground, and Niecus was just hanging out in mid-air, diaper full of baby poop, looking at me like, "what's wrong, Auntie?  I think it's time for a cuddle."

No, baby, it was not time for a cuddle.

If it had been left to me, Niecus and I would have remained in our respective positions until the rest of the house woke up at 7 a.m.  I was almost literally paralyzed with illness and fear of what would come out the sides of Niecus' diaper if I even twitched.  Fortunately, my sister eventually remembered that she'd left her child dangling from the clutch of someone who can barely be bothered to buy toilet paper.  She returned, collected Niecus, and changed what turned out to be an only slightly dirty diaper.

So much for explosive baby diarrhea.  Moral of the story: whatever new parents tell you about the business of tending to infants, just divide that by a Truth Factor of half.  New parents are very dramatic sorts of people.  They spout wild tales, and all you can do is pat them on the head and tell them to go take a nap.

Second moral of the story: some of the best gifts are memories, and I am very grateful for this particularly warm and squishy Christmas memory.

Some of you haven't seen the Niecus in a while.  Here are a few photos of her, fronting major attitude:

<Girl is fat>

<Has opinions.  Has pizza crust crumbs on her face>

And here's  a video of me trying to feed her peas, and her being unimpressed, and her dad trying to teach me The Rules about when and how a Niecus Obesus may be fed:

 

Greeting cards...and fury!

You know you’re an adult when you start getting Christmas cards from all the people who’ve been fleecing you for cash all year.

That sentence was going to be a bitchy little Gchat status update, but then I lost control and started answering all the cards I've been getting:

• Thank you, Mr. Real Estate Broker.  I am confident that the beauty of the season will, indeed, add a special glow to my holiday celebration.  I hope the extortionate fee I paid you to find me an apartment will add a special glow to your Adjusted Gross Income.

• How thoughtful of you, Mr. Dentist, to wish me a “New Year filled with joy and laughter!”  I especially appreciate the magnetized 2013 calendar you included.  I’d almost forgotten your phone number, fax number, street address, email address, website and the proper arrangement of ALL CAPS after your name (hint: it’s “DDS”).  But now I have this handy magnet calendar with all of your information.  And pictures of sunflowers.  The best part is the air bubbles from where the calendar sticker was sloppily applied to the magnet.  I’m going to use this to hang up your most recent overlarge invoice.  Right on the inside of the metal trash compactor downstairs.  May your New Year be filled with my bounced checks.  I’m pulling my own teeth from now on.

• With all respect, Landlord & Landlord Property Management Partners d/b/a Faceless Landlords R Us, Inc., if you’re going to send a Christmas card with false wishes of merriment (“Happy Holidays!  Just a reminder that drunkenly falling into the street on New Year’s Eve and getting hit by a taxi is no excuse for not mailing your rent check!”), could you at least PUT A STAMP ON THE ENVELOPE AND GIVE THE MAIL CARRIER SOMETHING TO DO?  I am not impressed with the scuffed and bent card that the super shoved under my door on Monday morning.

The worst part about these “Thanks for your money!  Happy Christmas!” cards is how they magnify the absence of the cards that no longer arrive.  I understand that I’m 31 now, but I don’t remember giving anyone permission to stop mailing me Christmas cards stuffed with cash:

• Dear Distant Cousin Who Was 35 When I Was Born:  you haven’t send me $25 for Christmas in years.  I’ll accept a cashier’s check for the accumulated amount.  That’s like $325.  And Christmas in on Tuesday, so hurry up.

(Family – I am totally kidding.  I just made up the cousin in the above paragraph.  Do not send me money.  If you send me money, I’m going to use it to buy things you don’t approve of, and then I’m going to text you photos of the things I purchased.  On your work smartphone.  You’ll be fired).

My point is that businesses should stop sending their customers (that’s me.  Mostly me.) holiday cards.  It only makes me angry.  All the businesses who have sent me cards this December are fired.  If they were so smart, they’d send a gift of Cheetos.  My coworker gave me a bag of Cheetos for Christmas today.  It’s the best gift.  They only cost him a dollar!  I know, because I saw him purchase the bag from our office vending machine before presenting it to me with great flourish and merriment.  All of these stupid mass-produced plastic cards cost whatever they cost, plus postage!  More than one dollar expended but ZERO CHEETOS IN HAND!!!  Brainless tomfoolery.  I object, and I revolt against the practice.

If you are not currently the object of my wrath, Happy Christmas!  Here’s a Christmas dog, to make you happy:

My dog ages me and I think I offended the Pope

If you have a dog, you know what happens when you and your hound encounter another hound on the street:

You:  [to yourself: "Dammit, here comes another dog.  I hope it isn't friendly.  I don't have time for this"]  [what you actually say]:  "Hello!"

Other Dog Parent (ODP):  [silently: "Dammit, I have to pick up the drycleaning before they close.  Why can't she just cross the street??  JUST CROSS THE STREET."]  [what they actually say]:  "Hello!"

Your dog: Do-I-like-you-Let's-find-out-sniffsniffsniffsniffSNNNNIIIIIFFFFF

Other dog: I-accept-your-sniffing-and-I-will-also-sniff-you!  Best-day-ever-SSSSSNNNIIIIFFFF

ODP  [high pitched voice, sounds unnatural]:  "What a cutie you have here!"

You  [strangled squawk]:  "Aw, yours too; SO CUTE!!"

ODP:  "How old is yours!"

You:  "Oh, eight!"

ODP:  "Wow, he's in great shape!  What an amazing dog, I've never seen such a glorious creature!  Mine's seven months!"

You:  "OMG, a PUPPY!!!  Such an aDORable baby puppy, omigosh!  Lookatthosepawsthey'resobigIbetshe'sgoingtobesuchabiggirlaren'tyougirl???"

[Both humans, to themselves: "This is taking way too long.  Why did I get a dog?  I hate people.  Dogs make me interact socially.  How stupid am I?  WALK AWAY, OTHER PERSON!"]

Eventually, one dog gets tired of sniffing the other dog and becomes aloof, or (my favorite), suddenly bites the other dog (often for no discernible reason; dogs are dogs - they nip sometimes, and you don't always get to know why), providing the perfect excuse for the tormented dog parents to disentangle their "children" and continue on their walk.

I deal with this every day, often several times.  I'm an expert in dog parent conversations, and they rarely surprise me.  My dog's almost thirteen now, and I've had him his entire life.  When he was five or eight, people didn't think twice when they heard that.  Now, though, when people find out not only that he's an aging old queen, but also that I've had him since the beginning, I actually see them taking a second look at me and mentally calculating my age.  Like, "oh, man.  I'm talking to an adult.  Do I smell like weed as bad as I think I smell like weed?  Don't run.  Might be a cop.  Might be a serial killer.  MIGHT WANT TO EAT MY DOG.  Be calm."

Last night, I ran into a friendly, inebriated guy who was "walking" his dog.  And by "walking", I mean he had allowed his hound to jump one of those little fences that protects freshly planted trees from pedestrians and peeing dogs, so that the peeing could be done on the small tree, and not farther away, like other responsible dog owners.  But I am not judging.  Of course, my dog sticks his faces over the fence to greet the other dog, who was doing its best to kill the infant tree by urinating endlessly.  Since they didn't immediately start fighting, I had to do the obligatory Dog Parents Conversation (see above).  And I swear to you, as soon as the guy heard how old my dog was, and that I'd had him forever, he looked up at me sharply.  And studied my face.  Counting wrinkles, counting forwards, counting to at least thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two (n.b.: thirty-two is too far.  For now).  I was infuriated.  I wanted to throw the bag of dog poop I was holding at his face and scream, "I may have wrinkles, but YOU HAVE POOP FACE."

I didn't.

It's possible that I'm imagining at least some of this.  Maybe I'm ageist against myself.  But I don't think so.  My dog ages me.  People can tell I'm over thirty, even though I still feel twelve.  I should just start lying and say he's still a puppy.

Which brings me to Christmas.  This is New York, and Christmas is a big deal around here.  A big, fat deal, with extra servings of flashing Christmas tree lights, Christmas tree ornaments, Christmas trees and PEOPLE!  People everywhere, shopping and drooling over decorations and stuffing their faces with delicious Christmas colored donuts.  Not that ZB would know.  He started his new job a few weeks ago, and hasn't left his office since.  I'm not sure he even realized that Halloween and Thanksgiving were already over before tonight.  The situation was sort of critical.  So I took action.

Early this evening, I marched into ZB's office (yes, at 5 p.m. on a Saturday night) and demanded that he leave for a few hours, to decompress and de-stress.  Obviously, the very first thing we did was walk north up 5th Avenue.  Towards the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree.  Where every tourist and New Yorker with young children had converged to stare at the lights for one second before being pushed farther along the avenue by the mass of people behind them.  It was like accidentally joining a herd of penguins and realizing too late that, once inside the herd, you cannot get back out.  You can only move with the herd, until you flow towards the edge of it again, at which point you can safely hurtle away and start making personal decisions about your forward momentum again.  Haha.  Actually, it was not funny at all.  It was horrible, like walking into one of those contraptions people have in their kitchens that squishes soda cans to the width of a coaster.  It's my first Christmas in New York.  I didn't know.

To escape the humanity, I yanked ZB down a cross street, which happened to run right by St. Paul's cathedral.  A church, a pretty church!  Perfect way to calm ourselves after the 5th Avenue Christmas tree mania.  Helpfully, a sign over the door assured us "St. Paul's Cathedral is Open".  Oh, good.  It's open.  Of course we'll pop in.  So we did pop in, through a side door and SMACK INTO THE MIDDLE OF THREE THOUSAND CATHOLICS ATTENDING SIX O'CLOCK MASS.  We were issued some, um, looks by the congregants.  Looks which were clearly meant to communicate, "WTF, Sinners?  How dare you interrupt our Mass and let the cold air in?  No communion for you."

You know what, it is not even my fault.  First of all, who goes to church on Saturday night?  Second, if you're in church, ESPECIALLY if you're in church wearing leopard print wedge heels on your fat little feet, don't you frown at me, lady.  I didn't know there was Mass.  The sign said "Open", not "Open, With Possible Mass Conditions Afoot".  There's a limit to the amount of blame I will accept for stumbling into what appeared to be a very serious ritual, involving incense and several priests moving about the stage at once.  Maybe it was actually a play.  I don't know.  What I do know is that my reaction was completely natural, and that was to:

1) realize we'd interrupted a Mass,

2) scowl at Leopard Wedge Woman,

3) announce in a strangled/loud whisper to ZB, "oh. It's Mass", and

4) throw open the doors we'd just come in through and flee.

I hope Leopard Wedge Woman got a blast of cold air in her face.  I hope it ruffled her hair.

I thought ZB might be a little traumatized by the one-two punch of Christmas Penguin Mania and Catholic Death Stare, but he's a lawyer now.  Nothing bothers him.  He just wants to know when we're taking over sole custody of the Niecus from her real parents.  Soon, I keep telling him.  Really, quite soon.

Bad Parents

Here's a fact: if your child is not the Niecus, then he is a sub-par child.  However, I would never dislike your kid just because he resembles a pile of wilted lettuce compared to the radiant cactus flower that is my precious Niecus.  No.  As a general rule, I like kids.  Kids are funny, especially when they have speech impediments.  I think people misunderstand this when they see me rolling my eyes in a child's general direction.  Let me clear up the confusion: I'm not rolling my eyes at your child.  I'm rolling my eyes at you.  Because no matter how hideous and shrill your kid is being, it is 100% your fault.

A few weeks ago, a couple with an approximately twenty month old human girl creature moved in next door.  Their small creature's normal mode of communication is to shriek, to shriek quite loudly, and to shriek for hours without resting.  At first, I thought they also had a baby pet rhinoceros who liked to gallop across the entire apartment ceaselessly.  Actually, though, it was just their howling offspring, thudding around like an enraged animal, without any instruction from her parents in alternate locomotionary manifestations, such as "walking".  After a week of wanton shrieking and mad galumphing about, we calmly requested that the building manager remove the child (who ZB has lovingly nicknamed "Hellspawn") to foster care in a far away land, like Alabama, and throw her parents in jail for being awful people.  As a warning.  While our requests were not strictly honored, we did subsequently enjoy a few days of peace.

This morning (Saturday!), though, Zookeeper B was awakened by Hellspawn's sharp yelping, and immediately armed himself (...with a pillow, to place over his head and muffle the screaming.  His knee-jerk reaction is to take refuge, and not to engage in violence.  The latter is primarily my M.O.).

Before he could fall back asleep, he heard the parents arguing (we have really thin walls).  As far as ZB could gather, their argument went something like this:

Slightly Acceptable Parent: "We have to take her out of here before she starts really screaming."

Worst Parent Ever: [referring to his neighbors, and presumably, specifically referring to me and ZB]: "I don't know these people!  I don’t care if her screaming bothers them!"

As you might imagine, this attitude makes me absolutely homicidal.  I have seen this guy.  I have seen him leaving his apartment at six in the morning, which is when I also sometimes have to leave for work.  I have seen him, with his stupid, balding head and his stupid unibrow and his stupid, ugly, wrinkled tie.  But I've always been nice to him.  Just because someone looks stupid and wears wrinkled ties doesn't make them automatic objects of contempt.  I am tolerant.  I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.  It is now clear, however, that this man is not only stupid and contemptible, but a terrible parent, as well, which is the worst crime of all.

Look, if you are an annoying person who impedes upon my life with your bad decisions and unfortunate hygiene, you are just one person who is making my day miserable.  If you're a parent, though, you are molding a second, third, fourth and possibly even fifth (which should really be illegal, by the way) person in your filthy, objectionable social image.  You are ruining my life, times six: once for you, and five times for each of your wretched progeny.

Which is exactly what this guy is doing.  He is willfully raising a child to behave badly and to be impervious to the effects of her actions on those around her.  That isn’t Strike One, that is ALL of the strikes.  That is Game Over, You Die.  Now, when I see this guy, all I want to do is:

1)      Throw his child down the trash chute, so she can learn what happens when you shriek relentlessly in a residential building filled with grumpy young couples whose immediate response to, “so when are you having children?” is “we’ve had children for years.  They just had their annual vet visit and they only had a handful of fleas.  Thanks for asking.”

2)      Stuff him down the trash chute after his daughter, and mash him in there until he fits, which would cause him to suffocate, or strangle on his wrinkled tie, or both.

Unfortunately, that’s all illegal.  You can’t throw kids down trash chutes (really, it is a law), and you can’t kill your neighbors for being supreme jerks (also a law).  The only thing I can do is demand that ZB send weekly complaints to our building manager (she’ll be getting a large tip at Christmas), and write angry blog posts constituting a blanket reprimand upon anyone who has ever been a parent for raising insufferable brats who make me stare lovingly at objects like this.

As you might have noticed, posting has been scant around here for the last month.  That is because, having escaped Connecticut for the glittering gem of civilization that is New York, I have been remarkably short on rage.  Without fury, I am fairly untalented.  Thanks to our new neighbors, that’s all over now.  Anger buttons: Engaged.  Writing ability: Restored.  Details on our very tiny apartment to follow: Soon.

 

Christmas 2011. Mostly Photos.

Popeye's Chicken takeaway and sushi delivery saved us from cooking this Christmas.  Except for Zookeeper B's homemade sausage egg McMuffins [although, even these required leftover Popeye's buttery biscuits].

There's very little I can tell you about Christmas beyond what is evident in the photos.  We ate way too much food, finished several bottles of wine, watched Lord of the Rings and harassed the animals.  Happy Christmas.

<Christmas poop>

<Yes, that is Gandalf.  It is our annual LOTR marathon>

Christmas Eve Eve 2011

I feel like the Zoo has been a super uneventful location lately.  All I've been doing is eating Christmas candy, conversing with the dog and staring at our Christmas tree late into the night, in a wine haze.  Like the tree is on suicide watch.  As if the tree is going to shuffle over to the menorah and light itself on fire if it isn't under 24-hour supervision.

My office has closed down for the holidays, leaving me with free time and no deadlines.  Considering my preferred activities of late (see above) this may not be ideal.  It is a good thing Zookeeper B is around.  He knows how to jerry-rig the kitchen faucet into a fire extinguisher.  Just in case.

Last weekend, we headed into the scary city to eat food that we have eaten before (here and here).  Next month, we're going back to another place we've been before.  I'm not really into "variety".  I know the scary city has a lot of restaurants.  I know it.  But once I've found something I like, I'm not interested in expanding my dining options until I get to the "show me that [generic foodstuff item that I've been eating for six months] and I'm smashing it" point.  Currently, this scotch egg is my best friend:

I'm also enamored of this mac 'n' cheese and these hushpuppies, which you eat with ketchup, unless you are a dirty, filthy ketchup-hating Yankee:

Tonight is the eve of the day before the Sweet Baby Jesus' birthday, as decided by the early Christian Church, at the dawn of civilized Christian culture, even though there were already several mid-winter celebrations established at the time, but which nobody cares about anymore, because arranging ceramic nativity scenes on the fireplace mantle is a lot more fun than any heathen, wine-fueled revelry as described here (scroll down to "Observances").

I love Christmas.  I love it even more than Halloween.  I look forward to it all year, and I get really cranky on the day after Christmas, when it is all over.  But today, and tomorrow - these are the best days.  The best.  The tree is up, the stockings are hung, presents are piled haphazardly on the floor, the kitchen counters are overflowing with chocolate and wine, and everyone is wearing festive things like jingle collars (Zoo animals) and socks (Zookeepers).  Everyone is in festive anticipation mode.  It is time to read all of the Christmas books and watch all of the Christmas movies.  Every hour or so, one of the Zookeepers yells to the other Zookeeper, "It is CHRISTMAS TIME!" which elicits a "YAAAAAY!!!!" from across the room, and this does not get on anyone's nerves.

Here's a dose of the pre-Christmas cheer at the Zoo:

<Wrapping presents.  YES, IT IS ALL ALCOHOL>

<Visits with old friends>

<He loves his Christmas tree so much this year>

<He's pretending to be the Sweet Baby Jesus, wrapped in swaddling cloths a beach towel and lying in the manger on the sofa>

<Yay!  Decorations!  Btw, for those of you who care about details, I know it isn't the last day of Hanukkah yet.  I stopped trying to remember how many candles to light on which day a few days ago.  Really, it's too much work.  I've just been lighting the whole thing every night, instead>

Happy pre-Christmas!  Don't forget to watch Die Hard and Die Harder.  Don't forget to drink your wine.  Give bigger tips.  Eat your cookies.  Send me presents.  Christmas post to follow.