Let's BLOG "First Come, First Serve" The New Generation

Times are a' changing.  This I know.  I hold onto what little girl values I have and hold onto them tight because in today's world those morals are being replaced with self worth.  Self-indulgence.  And a pile of possessions.

Maybe you've heard these quotes:

You have to do what makes YOU happy.

YOU come first.

Or maybe you've seen a child sporting this shirt around town:

That shirt might even be all bedazzled up with neon brights and glitter galore.  Not just to make it more appealing on the store rack, but to make that quote be the first thing you see walking down that hallway.

More and more our generation is all about 'first come, first serve. ' That being OURSELVES.

Used to be "ladies first" and eventually "women and children" first.

Now it's most likely for he, himself, and him.

There's hardly a door open for anyone else.  Hardly an 'excuse me' or 'pardon me' when you're being pushed or shoved down an aisle or sidewalk.  And I can't remember the last time a man sitting in a pew at a church has ever offered their seat to a woman.  I've even seen men stretch their arms out as far left and right as possible and behind them, stands a pregant or elderly woman.

Why it's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE. It doesn't matter that that elderly woman with the cane took some extra time to arrive at the church.  Her eyes don't work as well as they used to and those streets are dark.  It doesn't matter that the pregnant woman has two other children at home and had to bundle them up on Christmas Eve and strap them in their car seats in the snow.  It's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE and if that man found his family a seat and there's room for his two teenage sons, they OWN that pew and the only thing they are moving for is to receive communion - the body of Christ, that is.  The acceptance that you are willing to accept Christ in your heart and live through him.

It's the FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE generation.

Watch a line at an amusement park, a snack bar, or a ticket line.  Watch how many people CUT a line and give the excuse that they are "joining their family."  And in joining their family, they bring along a crew of five or more people.  If their family arrived FIRST, the latecomers believe they have the right to be SERVED FIRST as well.


Watch those crowds on Black Friday.  Someone would just assume stampeding through a crowd, possibly trampling over one another just to be FIRST for that new gadget or twelve foot long flatscreen television.  No different than the brides steam rolling one another at a Filene's Basement for that discounted dress or the maul of mothers that become female wrestlers when those Cabbage Patch dolls hit the shelf.  Dolls have changed but those moms are still alive and thriving.

It's FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE and you best have on your running shoes.

We don't want to face it because we all know it's NOT what we truly want for our children.  We fear it.  But we as a generation fear worse that we can't CHANGE it, so instead of setting an example, we teach our children COPING strategies to deal with society and its impulsive ways.  It's like we know we are waging war and we are training little soldiers to succeed in the Battlefield of Greed.

It's not always that evident, but look for the symptoms:

It's Field Trip time, and the first parents to sign up, get to go. 

It's a movie premiere and someone has saved an entire row for late arrivals.  Might as well share the FIRST SERVING if you send someone ahead.  Even if that someone has no other responsibilities but their own.

Flyers and contests that state "the first 100 customers..."

First come, first serve is not just a trend.  It's a ICON.  

Whether it's an airline's policy to not sit small children with their parents because they weren't there first or those flight ticket prices going up the later you buy, it's still FIRST COME, FIRST SERVE.

There are times that call for a race.  There are times when someone MUST come in first.  An Olympic track event, a sports championship, a job interview.  But even their race was a JOURNEY.  That trophy did not come fast.  It came STEADY.

What makes us separate from other mammals is our cognitive thinking.  If we all lived the first come, first serve we are no different than other species.

 If we don't start serving only those that come first and giving them their fill and more, there will be no second, third or tenth place.  Our children will learn you must be FIRST to succeed.  You must be FIRST. Not hardworking or patient or even responsible.  Just be FAST.  Because in today's world, there's no time for customer service.  It's a SELF SERVE kind of world.

For those of you opening a door, sharing a seat, offering someone help up an icy staircase instead of getting inside first, may your children grow up to be as SELFLESS as you are.  Let them come in second.  Or sixty-third for that matter. Finishing last to let someone go ahead won't always get you the best serving.  It won't even get them FIRST PLACE.  But it will absolutely make them FIRST CLASS.  

Let's BLOG "No Room at the Inn"

It was just a few days ago, I was standing hand in hand with my two daughters right there in front of the Magic Kingdom.   The song “When You Wish Upon a Star” enveloped us.  I held those two little ones so tightly, believing in every word.  

In that moment  I was so overwhelmed with love for them I made a promise.  I would stop at nothing to make their fairytale dreams come true.

Now we stand three days later.  Our flight home.  What happened on that ride was a disgrace to all mankind. 

With the lyrics “when your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme” and “fate is kind, she brings to those who love” still ringing my ears, I sat on the flight torn.  The magic of Disney still strong in our hearts and memory, I watched in horror as the scene unfolded.  And what replaced the grace of Cinderella and the innocence of children everywhere was nothing but villians of the worst kind.

Our flight was to leave at 8:10pm.  We scheduled our taxi ride for 6:30pm.  He arrived at 7:20.  As we ran to bag check-in, carry-on inspection and gate 104, we were sweating it out, but since we had four children with us, I sang the tune of ‘Run Run Rudolph’ to the them, reminding them of the scene in Home Alone when they were running to catch a flight.  The kids joined in as we made a mad dash to the plane.

Moments before we reached security, an announcement came on: Flight to Manchester last boarding.  Attention to Fay Family of Four and Other Family of Three! Last call!" That’s how close we were to takeoff! We got our own sendoff.

Upon entering the plane, to no surprise, the plane was full.  Not just full,not just too capacity, but actually splitting at the seams. 

And there we were, one dad and two moms with two eight year olds, one ten year old, and a fourteen year old.  This would be one of their first flights ever.  

We walked the plank to Captain Hook’s island at that moment, finding seven seats left on the plane.  Just enough for our group.  But they were all in separate rows and aisles, some as far as 10 rows apart.

The flight attendants were of no help.  They saw us struggling to find seats and ignored our plea.  I informed the first attendant that there were no seats together and we had small children.  She said we would have to take our seats anyhow and make do.  I told her that it would be alright to separate the adults but that the children would need to ride near an adult.   

She refused to help and sent us to the back of the plane to another attendant.  One with a microphone.  Nevertheless, speaker in hand, she didn’t make her move.  That’s when I stepped in.   Right as they were instructing us to use their safety devices and our little girls began to cry.

I made a mother’s plea to the passengers, holding back my tears. “Could anyone please spare a seat so that we can sit near our children? They are young and new riders.  Can anyone help?”

Silence.

I know, you’re probably trembling right about now.  That’d be the DISGUST you have in mankind right now. I’m talking young teenagers, couples, even grandparents.  There were 100 passengers aboard and NOT one got up and volunteered.

NOT one even made eye contact with me.

An awkward silent moment passed and my eight year old squeezed under my arm, my ten year old started biting her nails to hide her tears.

I asked the attendant to help once again and she said, in a rather rude tone, “I can’t help you, SHE is supposed to up there.”

I explained that SHE had sent us to her and we needed support NOW.

Out of not kindness, but out of frustration because the plane was trying to leave, she announced over the loudspeaker, “excuse me ladies and gentlemen,we have two mothers with small children and we are looking for someone to trade  seat so they can sit together.”

Now here’s where you think SOMEONE will volunteer to be tribute.  There just HAS to be a Katniss on board.  

For the second time, not one passenger offered.  They played on their tablets, started reading their nooks, and some even stuck their headphones into their ears.

Having just left Disney, I tried to keep calm.  I was two seconds too close to going VILLIAN on them, but I knew if I stayed calm, someone just might cave.

No dice.

I announced for the third time, “so there is NO ONE that is willing to offer us a seat so I can sit with my two young children?  One had motion sickness on the last flight all the way to Florida and the other has allergies.  In fact, this backpack is filled with her epi-pen and medical supplies. We really can’t sit apart.”

SILENCE.  The kind that pierces your skin.  The kind that has you thinking there is no hope for our race.

We walked the plank back to the front, the seven of us.   Our dad found a seat in the first four rows and my sister put her eighth grader near two grandparents that weren’t willing to make the sacrifice to split up.   They watched as my sister started to cry and still had the audacity to get up and put her inside, near the window, further from her mother because they didn’t like that seat.

The next part had me choked up. I watched my sister place her little eight year old, the smallest one with us in a seat by herself with strangers while she took a seat four rows back.  I squeezed her arm and told her she was so brave and she is TEN times better than anyone on board and we’d be home in no time.  Just like riding a bus.  I made sure to make that loud enough for everyone in the last ten rows to hear. 

My turn.  There was no way in HELL I was going to sit my girls and me apart.  I didn’t care if I took the next flight.  I was not going to seat my two tearful girls in separate seats ten people apart from one another and me.  

I refused to sit.  Not kidding. I held the flight up.  They could not leave because I would not sit.  I would not allow this inhumanity to win.   Love was in my heart and no request would be too extreme.

The attendant told me to put them wherever and I told her if she didn’t find us a seat together I would not move from my location.

She then asked a young single man, in his twenties if he would move a seat.  I must say here that he was on an aisle.  He had one seat between him and an old man last in that row pretended he did not see what was happening. 

Young man gets up,  goes up two rows and my daughters take the two seats there and I take the seat across the aisle. In fact, I get to sit with a couple, who resembled grandparents, who offered me a snack, my children snacks and some bubblegum.  But they couldn’t offer a seat to me two minutes ago.

Six rows back, seatbelts on, my niece starts panicking.  Her sobs are now hyperventilation and is crying for her mother.  Finally, a woman with two teenage sons offers my sister a seat and they joined one another in the safety of their arms.

I watch the rest of the flight as the man next to my daughters helps my girls with their buckles, putting on their lights and pointing things out the window.  And yet he had not offered his seat.

I watch young couples without children laugh and talk as if nothing happened and as if sacrificing two hours away from one another was too much of a price to pay.

I watched everyone everywhere play animated bird games and make their ways through mazes assisting one another .  Some checking their messages, texts,and iphone picture galleries. 

Some ordered alcoholic beverages while others give a tall order of how they want their drink served and exactly what snack is to be delivered.  The attendants smiling now, as friendly as ever, go by me and have the nerve to ask, “is there anything we can get you?”

My sister left her seat whenever possible to check on her other daughter and console the one with her.  Who knows what might have been going through her mind, her fourteen year old daughter sitting in the back seat next to a strange man. 

Within minutes, my youngest had hives up and down her legs and I was applying her medicated cream and prescribed allergy medicine.  The hives worsened for a bit, but luckily passed before I had to apply an epi-pen.  I was positive it was the peanut dust from the seat she was sitting in. My oldest held her tummy most of the way and reached for my hand while biting the fingernails on another.

Our only solace was a mother behind me that apologized for not offering her seat.  She had two young boys with her and could not leave them.   We became instant friends.  I told her her parents should be proud of the person she became. She even talked my daughters through their fears at takeoff while I calmed myself down.

Worse yet was the landing.  I waited for my sister and finally her oldest from the back row.  I made sure to give eye contact to each and every passenger that went by, hoping someone would find it in their heart to apologize or make amends or what had happened. Nothing.  Other than glares and people looking straight forward.  Their conscience, if they ever had one, left behind.

Here’s where it gets even worse.   We waited in a row for the eighth grader.   “Great job!”we said and my sister yelled, “she did awesome!” Next we saw the woman who had gotten up last minute for my niece and my sister told her ‘thank you.’ Still, why she had to wait for my niece to start gasping for air to move her seat, I'll never know.  I asked my sister if that was the woman who helped and she nodded.  That’s when a high school boy walked by and said to both of us mothers, “YEAH, to get what YOU wanted.”  

Followed by, get this, his high school age sister mimicking in a sing-songy sarcastic voice, “ooooh, you pooooorr souls.”  And they both laughed.   I told them may God forgive you for what you just said especially if you are going to have children someday.  My sister, a bit braver yelled, “you better not be outside this terminal when I get off.”  I wanted to give her a hug.  Course it embarrassed our children from Infinity to Beyond!”

As I left the plane, I made sure to make a pit stop to the cockpit. I got one more, “can I help you?” from the attendants and I replied, “ yes, you can. I will need both your names.”   They asked what for. 

I told them that they would be reported  for this incident.  I told them it was neglectful and I would be speaking to their authorities and they should know that if my youngest had an asthma attack on board without me and her medical pack, they would have been held responsible.  That attendant did nothing but flash her sales smile until I turned away.  Then she looked at my eight year old daughter, the one with the peanut allergy and said, "you're just lucky you were on the same plane with your mother." 

Friends, we ought to worry about  our future.  This was just an example of how we as a generation, have come to a crossroads.  We are failing ourselves.  My own father,  a purple heart veteran, sacrificed his life for the people of this country and no one on board that ship would sacrifice a single seat for two hours.  I hope for their sake if they sit on their next flight and they need assistance or a helping hand, that someone like me would be sitting next to them.

One inspiration though,came from my own daughters.  The oldest was cold on the flight and I watched with pride as my youngest TOOK OFF her sweatshirt and offered it to her.   Even helped her put it on.

For what faith I have in people I don’t know of, but what strikes me the most is the WOMEN, especially those who have been blessed with children of their own or grandchildren,could not open their hearts and just move over a row.  God forbid it happened to one of their loved ones.

Southwest Airlines failed us tonight.  But most  of all, humankind.  There I was, a mother who had worked an entire school year to provide her children with a special gift of magic and wishes and believing anything can happen.  A mother who was just looking for a place for her child.

And her response was “there is no room at the inn.”

 I will be speaking to this airline.  And furthermore, I will continue to instill in my own children for the next generation that one must care about others.  One must put others first.  And  that fate is kind. She brings to those who love.  I hope you carry on as well.

Let's BLOG Hotel Hell

I am in HOTEL HELL.

You see our oldest is on an all-star softball team.  2^nd string that is.  Meaning she’s the best striker outer our league’s got.  But I will say she is the cutest centerfielder and the best breakdancer in the dugout.

This weekend the all-star team sets off to a tournament.  IN DOVER.  Which might as well be Canada.  And worst yet, the first game on a SATURDAY, MY DAY OFF is at 9am.  We were notified to be at the field at 8am.  IN DOVER. 

I took that like the news of a colonoscopy gone bad.  Right up the asshole. I have been riding a runaway train for the last three weeks really, between school and softball and back again, averaging a whopping five hours of sleep a night.  I didn’t even buy a ticket for this flipping train but I can’t get off and by the looks of me, you’d think I was in some sort of a TRAIN WRECK.

So alarm set.  Saturday morning, SIX AM.  I’m all packed, I lug two zombie girls to the car, and my handwritten google map directions to every softball field in Dover BUT the one we’re supposed to report to by 8am.  

I know, I know, I should have set the GPS.  The husband did give it to me.  You see, I’m a bit old fashioned.  There’s something REALLY creepy about a little gadget that speaks to you like a female robot, but more like a credit collector that could not reach you by phone so she broke into your car. And she has her period. 

 I am also well aware my husband is in Boston til 11am, in a production studio of COMPUTERS.  He can google map his ass off.  So when Mommy’s on a trip, she’s got her very own LIVE GPS: Daddy.  I might add that each and every time I call him SCREAMING MY HEAD OFF that I’m in freaking Boonieville or downtown ShitStain instead of my destination, he falls more and more in love with me.

We hit 93, then 101, onward to 125 and things are going well other than the girls complaining about foot space and the leftover jelly munchkin in the back seat.    Route 155 is when it all turns sour and I’m forced to call my Human GPS and tell him since I can’t find the actual field, I am going to host my OWN flipping softball tournament.   And at this point, it’s 7:35 on a Saturday morning, MY DAY OFF, and I don’t care if have it in a cow pasture.  We’re gonna’ GET R’ DONE!

On any other given day or time, I would have enjoyed the drive.  It was very scenic.  New Hampshire hills, dairy farms, and freshly manured dung mounds. Everything I love.  But when I’m in a big ass hurry, I can’t enjoy anything but  the mindboggling,  sadistic game playing tactics of google maps.com.   

I swear there are little google NASA men up there in a satellite getting their jollies sending we earthlings on these deadend expeditions watching us flip out because you know they’ve been stuck up in space since the internet gave birth and we are their only entertainment.

I’m 10 minutes late.   Not bad for a girl that fancies her lack of punctuality.  That’s after freaking out with my Human GPS from towns I’ve never heard of like Lee and Madbury. 

One game, two games, three games later, I’m spent.  I decide to take my youngest daughter to HOTEL HELL to check in, clean up, and fumigate the room.  

You see, not only did I make the mistake of volunteering my day OFF to go to DOVER, I let the GPS Guy, Robert, choose the hotel.  Or should I say HOSTEL.  

And there’s Robert, one week before our Disney trip, with two bucks to our name, trying to save  few pennies.  He chooses a certain INN.   Right there on MAIN STREET, America. 

 I’m all alone with my eight year old remember, and since my husband has joined us at the game, I am forced to submit to the REAL GPS.  Unfortunately for me, her cramps are even worse and she has no chocolate to spare.

Feeling courageous, I enter the address of the inn into the GPS and for the next forty minutes  I participate in a reanactment of Chevy Chase’s European Vacation.   

There’s the  INN.   On Main Street, America.  As well as twelve forks in the road, fourteen thousand one way streets, and a GPS that keeps demanding a take a U-TURN as soon as readily possible.  I could SEE the sign, right there in front of me, but I just could NOT get to the parking lot. I swear the hotel clerk was laughing her ass off at me, passing the hotel  10, 12 times as I announced, “LOOK, KIDS! Big Ben! Parliament!”  

Let’s back up here. Robert picked the hotel.  He tried to LURE me in with “it’s 7 out of 10 good reviews” and its TWO STAR status, and it’s two story ‘RESORT’ with its own inground pool, hot tub, in downtown DOVER five minutes from the softball field.  That’s about when I pull out of my freaking LOOK, KIDS! BIG BEN! PARLIAMENT! nightmare  and into HOTEL HELL.

First thing I notice is that adjacent to the INN is a Studio Apartment complex that shares the same parking lot and spa.   Then I soak it all in.  The two story structure, straight out of 1975, looking like Mike Brady designed it himself.  It also looked like many a teenage girl spent their junior PROM night in said resort.

Now Robert and I don’t exactly live in the lap of luxury.  Fayville doesn’t even have upstairs plumbing at the moment and the only thing FIVE STAR about it, is Grampa Bob’s inlaw apartment and his boombox.  When we get away, it’s usually to the family camp and the occasional Hilton hotel.  This INN, on Main Street, America did not look like it was worthy of two stars, seven good reviews, and it’s own brand of toothpaste.

Nevertheless, we check in.  With two golden girl ladies wearing NECKTIES.   

Everything goes smoothly and we are given our room keys.   You know you’re dealing with “LUXURY” when they tell you not to put your room keys near your cell phone or it will deactivate them and you have to fill out a PARKING PASS for your vehicle so it does not get towed.  

I reassured “Bea Arthur” of the INN that my very angry GPS lady who has run out of Midol will not allow any vandalism to my vehicle. After all, she’s there to collect my outstanding balance from my ten year old JCPenney account.

Next I take my parking pass and plastic room keys to the room, the balcony suite, and my daughter and I settle our luggage.  Even she’s not impressed and she’s never even been to a junior prom suite.

First off, I notice the display of authentic New Hampshire artistry: FLAPPING WINGED DUCKS on an OCTOBER MORNING POND.

The room seems clean enough and it does come equipped with its own iron.  Which by the way, I don’t care WHAT vacation I am EVER on, I REFUSE,and I repeat, I REFUSE to participate in any IRONING.  Luckily, the room also housed a SAFE in case you want to lock up your juice boxes and Gatorade since the room didn’t have a mini-refrigerator.

Two double beds, a night table,  bureau, a desk and chair, and a room with a view of the parking lot. That’s so you can watch your vehicle get towed away just in case you forgot your parking pass. 

The bathroom was big enough for one if you don’t mind pissing with your knees on a wall.  It also came with this sign that I was very impressed with, you know, because I am all about ‘saving the earth and all.’

However, this sign had me thinking I should have brought along my own linens.  Or at least a portable dry cleaning device.  When Robert arrived, he pointed out that the pillowcases also had a similar sign, encouraging you to use them more than once.

I know you might be shuddering of the thought of one sharing a leftover pillowcase, but that’s only because you are wasteful and don’t give a shit about our great planet or the survival of the head lice population.

Now you can go ahead and itch.

When our oldest was finally rested, we visited the inn’s pool and spa: a  20 foot long hole in a concrete floor shaped like a jellybean and a hot tub equipped with some of Dover’s finest plus-sized models enjoying a relaxing bubble dip. I’m assuming they resided in the apartment suites and probably frequent the tub with their illegitimate children each and every Saturday.

There were six chairs, all reserved by the local  apartment residents so I stood poolside watching my girls dip in and out of the jellybean while I counted the minutes before I could scrub them in the shower.   What was lovely was the hot tub ladies summoning Bea Arthur toward them, so they could recommend some ideas for the suggestion box.  One being that they actually MAKE a suggestion box and the other that the hotel offers a complimentary dinner with steak tips and lobster.

You can’t make this shit up but you CAN make your daughters simmer in a tub of bleach before you hit the sack.  Or at least have them down a 10oz bottle of amoxycillin.

So here I am, 11pm on a Saturday, MY DAY OFF,  in HOTEL HELL.  Hard to sleep due to the air conditioning unit that is controlled by the thermostat.  Sometimes I feel like I'm sleeping on an air strip and other moments I'm in a time capsule of doom.

 I’ll be honest.  I am not here because I needed to ‘get away.’   I am here because I am flipping tired and I’d rather spend the night here in HOTEL HELL than get up at the crack of dawn on SUNDAY MORNING, my next day OFF, to go watch another  seven rounds of softball. 

My human GPS of a husband is snoring away, probably prideful of his choice in hotel chains and satisfied that he saved thirty two dollars and twelve cents.  And he's most likely going to dream about the free two star continental breakfast.

If Bea Arthur does ever make a suggestion box,  I’d only have a few comments.  First being, the LOOK, KIDS! BIG BEN! PARLIAMENT! gig is really not that funny unless you ARE, in fact, riding shotgun to Chevy Chase.   And second being, their PRE-PASTED toothbrushes are so convenient that I am stealing more than my share.  They should probably keep those in the safe.

And lastly,this comment addressed to the HOTEL HELL CHAIN themselves: 

I don’t care if your toilet paper has a fancy triangle fold.  Or your pillowcases.  Or even your bath towels.   You can triangle that place up the asshole, and it will still be three stars short of a Hilton.

half-a-mom

Let's BLOG God Giveth and God Taketh

God giveth and God taketh.  That goes for pets at least.  And Fayville has had its fair share of fur, feather, and scales.  All in the name of caring for God’s great creatures.  And losing most of my brain cells.

It began when God gaveth us our first dog, Deion. Then God taketh him away, much too early, at the age of nine.   We spent the first year of our daughter’s life commuting a state away for six rounds of doggie chemo.   

Fayville grieved for a quite a few years until we opened our hearts and home to a beagle from Louisiana, who had just spent HIS eighth life on Hurricane Katrina.  Unfortunately, Neville the Beagle had a tendency, as all hounds do, to run away.  In the four short years we had him, he spent three nights in Doggie Jail and made three lost distance phonecalls from Alabama.  He was the local rebel without a cause and had us in trouble with the law more than my infamous “old lady bike up in a tree” incident.

Then came a tank full of fish, this having satisfied a yearning Robert had always had as an avid fish admirer and seafood lover. Why,  he once tried to save their sorry scaly souls during a power outage.  What he had not realized is that leaving a lit candle by a fishbowl would soon have them belly up and boiled to a nice chowder. 

 

Next came a little yellow birdy that our five year old had asked of Santa Claus.  Course she ended up being the Black Widow of parakeets.  For each and every time she lured an innocent male bird into her nest, she ended up with blood on her talons.  Debra Winger would have had a field day.

Up to the plate next,  was a lizard followed by a pair of green toed newts.  Fayville soon discovered that purchasing live crickets every week was as fun as shoveling dog crap into plastic grocery bags and all those scaly friends hit the road heading for Death Valley.

From there it was the occasional snapping turtle in a Barbie pool for a day, a tree frog in a box, and the array of feathered friends visiting Mommy’s birdhouse. By that I mean ducks,  the random turkey and a tribe of raccoon.

And let’s not forget the Grizzly Visitor of the Great Flood of Spring 2006. What started as Robert bringing our Neville inside in the wee hours of the night, resulted in a 200 pound Yogi Bear descending down a backyard tree and heading due east and Robert, wearing only his triple XL boxer shorts, fleeing toward the back porch and into my arms, the echo of his screams, “BEAR! BEAR!” only a memory.

Still, somehow we longed for more torture, I mean companionship, so we hit up Petfinder.com for a Puppy Max from Tennessee and a Miss Silvia from Oklahoma.  They came to us abandoned and broken-hearted and since then have filled our hearts with more veterinarian bills and trashbag surprises than we could have ever imagined.

It was last winter we invited the most unlikely of all pets: a GRAMPA. He came with own set of wheels, a bowling bowl, and dancing shoes.  Best pet yet until we discovered he brought along a souvenir: a BLACK LABRADOR that pulls like a mule and sheds  like a polar bear in spring. 

As if a trio of  pups was not enough, the most recent pets to join the Fayville Animal Sanctuary were a pair of teddybear hamsters.  The Easter Bunny had played a trick on Mommy and Daddy Fay and we welcomed Lily and Buddy.  Turns out Buddy is more of a stallion than a five ounce rodent.

Seventeen year old Petsmart Boy with his bicep of reptilian tattoo advised me, “The Easter Bunny,”  to adopt BABY hamsters.  They would adapt to a new home well, be socialized quickly and my kids would probably be able to handle them. Course Lizard Man could not identify either hamster’s genitalia five minutes to closing time but he gave me his EXPERT ANALYSIS decision that “uh, they’re probably both girls.  Just watch ‘em.  And let them play.  They’re cute when they play.”  I left there with the two little jackrabbits assuming that Lizard Man probably liked to see his three foot long python “play” with the leftover stock.

Two months at home, the furry pair began to fight.  There was lots of Buddy sniffing tail and Lily reacting with many a paw slap to the nose.  After a few nights of heavy squeaking, Lily left me a note one morning and demanded she move facilities.  She had packed up all her stuffing and hamster treats and was tapping her foot by the cage door.  

Life apart was quite pleasant actually.  Except for Buddy the Stallion.  Lily had adjusted to her new apartment and was spending most of her time in the penthouse suite relaxing and nibbling on carrots.  Buddy, however, had grown restless and lost much sleep trying to bite his way through his newly found jail cell of a home.  You see he was a lonely bachelor in his prime and the only action he got now was a maze of plastic tunnels that led to nowhere and beyond.  For him, it was HAMSTER HELL. 

Ironically, the same week that I had explored a science unit on LIFE CYCLES with my third grade class, I arrived home to a miniature army of baby HAMSTERS in Lily’s food dish.   All sitting there squeaking and squealing as Momma Hamster recovered.   I didn’t catch how many babies were in that bowl since she worked fast to collect them all and return them to a nest she had made in the back of Melrose Place there.  Mommy  has spent most of her second day laying atop her litter of bastards and I have still yet to count how many there actually are.

I did agree,however,  to find Lily a good attorney to write up a series of restraining orders.  I don’t blame her though.  Imagine You.  A two month old hamster, bullied, betrayed, and assaulted most of your young life and one day you mosey over to the food bowl in your cute little hamster home, and just as you’re nibbling on a kernel of corn, you go into convulsions and find yourself spewing eight nuggets out your asshole.

So here we are, the Fayville Animal Sanctuary in June of 2013.  I have many goals and ambitions for the future of our grand establishment, foremost being to GET RID of my hamster army,  but I also have a few regrets.  One being that we should have invested in some good farmland up north and the other wishing we developed some other kinds of hobbies like skydiving or eating cracked glass like the regulars on  TLC's hit show 'My Strange Addiction.' And yet my biggest regret is the smallest of all inconceivable notions.

I fear the trouble all started after having installed Buddy his new toy: the HAMSTER WHEEL.  Poor Lily the Hamster didn’t even see it coming.  He even had a mirror installed on the ceiling. Who knew such a device would lead to just another dark chapter in one of JJ Abrams bestsellers.

half-a-mom