Death of a Sales Squirrel

When I was in 3rd grade, for father’s day one year my mom decided to buy my father a hamster as a gift. Now, I don’t know what my father every did to my mother to deserve this sort of betrayal but, there are some things worth not knowing. Buying a domesticated rodent and putting it in our house is literally the worst gift anyone can give my dad. Give my dad a wild skunk freezing to death in the snow out in our backyard and he’ll spend 6 hours and ruin one of our good hair dryers trying to save it, but buy him a hamster from PetCo? No way. There is no way in this universe or any alternate universe or timeline where buying my father a hamster would be an appropriate gift.


So after careful consideration, and an appropriate amount of whining from yours truly, the hamster was passed down to me. I was not going to waste this opportunity. I was going to bestow upon this animal the most bitchin’ name ever. You ready for this name? Doorknob. It was perfect. Because he loved burrowing in his little wooden house! And how do you get into a house? With a doorknob. I thought I was so freaking clever. No child on this earth, past, present or future, has ever come up with such a truly unique name such as ‘Doorknob.’ I thought that I had just really outdone myself.


Anyway, I got bored of the thing or forgot about it because we put its cage behind the tv and at that point it was just out of sight out of mind for me. So of course my dad ended up taking care of it. It then died of some weird hamster disease like, three weeks later. Probably because its cage was behind the tv. Yeah, so I didn’t really care, probably because I’m a psychopath or something, but my mom had moved on to bigger, better things. I guess in her mind it was like, yeah that hamster was fun and everything but overall pretty boring. You know what wouldn’t be boring? A hamster. That can fly. And that’s how our family purchased our second pet, a flying squirrel.


The “Exotic Pet Store” lived on the outskirts of our Westchester suburb and was a decrepit business that was most likely a front for selling illegal, expensive fish to the mafia or possible evil villains from 90’s anime shows.


Here is an example of what their business model entails. I vividly remember being there once so my friend’s dad could buy live crickets for his lizard. Ew. Anyway, I stalked past the parrots and chinchillas to the back of the store to admire the hamsters, which were more my speed. The store owned about 20 to 30 hamsters, all of which were in one, very small fish tank. Which was sad but, I can assure you all of these hamsters are dead by now. If that helps. I noticed one hamster off to the side, recreating the melted nazi’s scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. In layman's terms, it was most definitely dead. So I called over an employee, a pizza-face teenager who looked like a stereotypical pizza delivery boy who wandered in and just decided to stay, and told him the hamster was dead in a condescending tone only a ten year old could maintain. He then peered into the cage with glassy eyes and announced, “Nah, he’s just sleeping.”

To which I answered, “Don’t hamsters usually breathe when they sleep?” With the smug superiority of some sort of animal expert, as if I were Jane Goodall herself. He then looked at the cage closer, past his pot-induced haze and finally agreed with me. He then, took the sickly hamster out of its cage, with his bare hands and threw it in the open trash can next to the cage. I just stood there as he walked away to probably (not) wash his hands, repulsed and slightly shocked. This fine establishment is where we purchased our very own Sugar glider.

This is not a picture of our actual sugar glider. We do not own a picture

of our sugar glider, because we were not one of those families of annoying

pet owners that take zillions of pictures of their animals in costumes

and whatever. We are those annoying pet owners that inadvertently kill

their own pets.

I don’t remember the exact day our sugar glider was brought home, probably because I was so excited that I entered some sort of hyperactive, glee filled fog. Her name was Cloudy and the entire family fell head over heels in love with her. Except for my dad of course. He was probably still bitter about that whole, hamster thing. And the fact that no one told him beforehand about the sugar glider purchase.


The next few months were a blur of feeding Cloudy carrots and attacking my frightened friends with her flying powers. It was a good few months. Until we eventually got tired of taking care of her. Having a sugar glider is hard work, though! Or at least, I assume it is, I’ve never actually taken care of one. My job was to pet her occasionally and brag about her to my friends. So really, I cannot be blamed for this whole fiasco.


There comes a time in every child’s life when they must face, head-on, the inevitability of death. Doorknob did not count because I did not really care about Doorknob because, c’mon, its name was Doorknob. How could you love a hamster named Doorknob? Cloudy was beloved though. She made funny chittering noises and she possessed the capability of flight. Cloudy was awesome, right up until the day that she died.


I would like to say that Cloudy died an admirable death, but that would be a dirty, dirty lie. It was a normal evening in our household. I was working on the next great American novel, which for me was a book solely illustrated with dogs and no words. My sister was upstairs looking for Cloudy, as she had not been seen in a few hours. At this point in Cloudy’s stay at our house, we got tired of looking after her as we let her fly around, so we just let her soar on her own, curtain to curtain, lampshade to lampshade, never predicting that something terrible could come of this. I was downstairs on page two of my dog book, when I heard my eight year old sister’s blood curdling scream. My mother and I raced upstairs to see what had happened, but we both knew, in our hearts, that something had happened to Cloudy. We rushed into the bathroom, where my sister stood shell-shocked, and saw Cloudy, eyes lifeless, legs splayed, floating face first in the toilet.


The next few minutes was filled with frantic hands all trying to fish Cloudy of the toilet, while my dad stood unhelpfully to the side telling us that we should have taken “better care of her,” and that he, “knew this would happen.” Oh really, dad? You knew that our flying squirrel was going to one day fly into and subsequently drown in our upstairs bathroom toilet? You just called that one, huh? Good for you.


After Cloudy’s death, my family (sans my father) mourned her death. After fishing her out in toilet, she was buried in our backyard, in a shoebox. A nice shoebox though, like an Aldo’s or something, not a Payless shoe box, because we loved her and Payless sucks. We didn’t have a tombstone and we were too lazy to make her one, so my sister and I used a broken periwinkle colored pencil that we found on the floor as her grave marker. She was indeed a cherished pet. Goodbye Cloudy. Rest in Pieces.

Trash Queen

When moving back in with your parents, one expects there to be a certain amount of luxury involved with the new living situation. One would expect free food, free internet, free laundry and magically clean bathrooms. What one would not foresee however, is a tiny trash can the size of my head that is the sole trash can of the household. This trash can was ridiculous. It needed to be taken out at least 3056720 times a day and every time I bent down to throw something away I would bang my head on the above cabinet, then get blamed for said bumping of the head because I was not “careful enough.” It was tearing our family apart.


Being the talented, special, amazing and responsible adult I am, I decided to venture out on my own and buy my family a trash can. I would say though that 80% of this reasoning was due to the fact that I thought it would win points with my parents and therefore letting me take four hour naps whenever I wanted to without being yelled at. I do not appreciate being yelled at during my precious nap time. So, armed with my money that I earned at my job I ventured out into the cold, uncaring world and walked 10 minutes into town to begin my trash can adventure.



The first stop was at CVS where I found no trash can, but rather a Brita filter that we so desperately needed, for I was tired of opening the fridge to about eight half-filled water bottles that people have obviously been slobbering all over. Point one to Emma for taking the initiative to buy her family their very own Brita filter with her very own money without being asked to do so a million times. I wasn’t even asked once. Your welcome, family. And so, feeling good about myself and my Brita filter I ventured off to find the perfect trash can.






Fast forward three hours and four stores later and I was still trashcan-less. Tensions were running high as I scoured every shelf of every story I could think of that might possibly have a trash can. The desperation began to leak into the very core of my being. I began eyeing the public trash cans scattered around the block, just sitting there, begging to sit in my kitchen. My dream was quickly dashed however when I realized they were chained to the sidewalk. Why on earth would they do this? Who would steal a giant disgusting public trash can and lug it home? Where was the trust? So this plan was out of the question. Besides, I would have felt bad stealing what was most likely a homeless person’s and/or the grouch’s home.



One last stop and I was desperate. The Dollar Store. Where your dreams go to either thrive...or die.


I stalked to the back of the store, past the tired looking cashier, probably exhausted from a night of murdering people and stuffing them in dumpsters, as Dollar Store employees are wont to do. Then, hallelujah! All of my hard work and suffering has paid off! On the top of the highest shelf, in the deepest depths of the store, like a princess from a fairy tale, was an adequate sized trash can. I had never, in my life, been happier to see a container for holding garbage. It was a momentous occasion in what I am now realizing is a very sad life.


I jumped and flailed, shimmying the trash can off its perch while refusing help from anyone who dared to ask. This was my journey, a quest that I must finish alone. As I finally got the container down, I peered inside and noticed that the lid for the can was not the correct one for the item. I then promptly decided, “whatever” and lugged it to the front of the store. Who needs proper working lids anyway?


At the cash register, I triumphantly put my prize on the counter and waited for the cashier to ring me up. However, instead of a nice, quiet transaction, I got this. 

“Are you single?” Asked the middle aged, balding, (probable) serial killer. Tell him no, I thought, tell him you have a boyfriend, tell him you’re gay, tell him you are a robot incapable of love and human relationships. Saying those things out loud are for sane people though so I answered, “Yeah, I’m single.” I then waited for the typical answer, “Can I get your number?” or even a casual, “Oh yeah? What’s up?” But instead, I got….silence. That was the end of his line of questioning. I just stood there, baffled and actually slightly put out, because, oh what? Am I not good enough for you, Dollar Store cashier man? Did you suddenly change your mind in the middle of my honest answer? Are honest, single girls a turn off for you? What did I do wrong? As he rung me up though, I started to cool off, think about things rationally. Maybe, in his culture, women do not go out on their own to buy trash cans. Maybe he was confused about a lonely woman buying a garbage can, and simply wanted to clear things up for his own piece of mind. Perhaps he was so stunned that I was indeed a single woman buying a trash can for what was now no doubt in his mind, bought for some sort of sinful, orgy sex dungeon. Yes, this was clearly the answer.


Happy with my purchase, and after having traumatized a Dollar Store cashier, I hauled the awkwardly large trash can/Brita filter combo home in the hot sun. What kept me going was the thought of my parent’s appreciation and awe for what an amazing daughter they had produced. What an incredible, prodigious daughter we have raised, my mother will say. Much better than our other kids, my father will agree. I will indeed be honored first place in the ongoing race of “the Golden Child” with my two sisters. Where I justly belong. Things were finally looking up for humble ol’ Emma.


My parents were not home when I dropped off the trash can and Brita filter. They mostly likely sensed with their maternal intuition what I tremendous deed I had done for them and went out to buy me a car or cookie dough or something. So I decided it was time for one of my patented four hour naps™. By the time I woke from my well deserved nap, my parents were still not home, so I got tired of waiting and went back to my apartment where I took another nap, because the 45 minute commute was extremely draining. It had been a long day.


I waited days for my parents to call and congratulate me on my “Golden Child” award, but I heard nothing. Not a peep. Maybe they were just too excited using their new trash can and Brita filter to remember to contact me. So I decided to call my mother up to remind her of who had provided such entertainment. After 15 minutes of small talk, and no mention of the trash can, I decided enough was enough and brought it up.


“So, do you guys like the new trash can?” I asked innocently.

“Oh yeah, we got a new trash can.” Answered my mother. A duh. I know that. I bought it.

“And do you know where it came from?” I pushed.

“Uh yeah, your dad said he bought it.”


UM? EXCUSE ME??? NO. No. No, no, no. I quickly started shrieking into the phone that it was I who bought the trash can. All me. Me. No dad. ME. Mom did not seem to care about this new development. Instead, she had the unmitigated gall to complain about the trash can. Something about how the lid didn’t work or fit or whatever, I was too enraged to really get what she was talking about. I hung up infuriated, vowing to never help my family out with anything ever again. I bet Mother Teresa never had to put up with this shit.

Walk of Shame

I have been having a tough week. Not for any real reason, like my dog died or my family was murdered by clowns, it was mostly just because I’m PMSing and my roommate ate the last brownie that I was looking forward to. Also I had to go to my parents house this week. Blegh.


So, yesterday, my dad thought he’d try to cheer me up by pointing out what a miserable, failure I was. Needless to say, it didn’t really work. He had taken me out on a walk, sort of like a dog, but like, some sort of weird dog that doesn’t like walks, so I guess more like, a cat or a fish...or one of those pet rocks that were really popular in the eighties. And as he berated me, obviously I started to cry because I had already been sobbing on and off for the last few days and one of my sporadic crying sessions just happened to fall in place with one of my dad’s lectures. My dad was somehow confused as to why I was crying, possibly because he had forgotten about the million other times I had burst out in tears in his presence and maybe he doesn’t understand why someone pointing out all of your most tragic flaws might not be a great pick-me up. I actually kind of feel bad for him, because he probably thinks my random emotional outbursts are somehow correlated with him, which they aren’t really, he just happens to be rolling his eyes at a very precarious time in wavering my emotional states. Anyway, while blubbering at his side he starts asking me why I’m miserable.


“Is it because you’re insecure about the way you look?” He asks. I just keep sniffling.

“Is it because you don’t have a boyfriend?” Still, I am silent in my suffering.

“Is it because you don’t like your school?” I refused to answer him, which was probably weird because I love complaining and I talk a lot.


Now, I’m going to let you in on a secret. The real reason why I was crying, and why I didn’t answer my father, was not because of some sort of complex, artistic torment swirling around in my brain. It was because to go on this “father/daughter adventure/sadness walk” my father had to wake me up from my nap. I was very upset when I was woken up and I hate going outside so I started crying and did not stop until the walk was over. Now, let that sink in. I am a 21 year old, mildly self-sufficient college student, who cried for 2 hours because her dad had woken her up from a nap. See, this is why I’m never having kids. Because you raise them, and you think you maybe did a good job but then one of them starts crying because she wanted to nap for four hours instead of three but she won’t tell you that and you go on thinking your kid is some depressed mystery with no direction in life. Which is only half true. Sorry dad. Maybe the other kids will turn out better. Or the dog. You’ve always liked her.