The heat is destroying my psychological state. It’s completely depressing me, the way people get in winter when they don’t get enough sunlight and vitamin D. More accurately, this excessive, never ending heat makes me anxious. Like getting-the-fits anxious, as in they turned off my water for maintenance the other night around 10pm and it set off a panic attack. WTF were we going to do? I had visions of total anarchy: water going on the black market for $100 a bottle, temperatures soaring up to 120 where people get cooked alive if they go outside, zombie-like mobs trying to pry open the bars of my well-barricaded and cool apartment, not that it mattered since I forgot to fill up my Brita before the water went out and NOW WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. I didn’t even have enough wine to last another two days.

What’s worse, I haven’t felt like exercising, which means I’m not getting my regular shots of endorphin. Once I’m in the house after work I’m in for the night, spending my evenings reading and watching Netflix instant streaming and taking photos of my hamster. The only thing that lures me outside is the great produce that’s coming into season at the farmers markets. So since I always end up with more produce than a person who lives alone would ever need, Winnie always benefits and the camera gets a workout too. Although I was afraid to upload all the photos to my computer since it might make my computer heat up and lead to a butterfly effect of a 110° temperature spike.

It came out at a wedding over the weekend: I plan on keeping my last name when I get married and I feel very strongly about it. Never mind that I have a more concrete plan for fulfilling my life goal of “Hold a koala like a baby” than I do for getting married, my name stays. The boys, of course, had different ideas, mostly related to the hypothetical children I have no plans on having.

“What if your husband doesn’t like that?” Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be marrying him if he cared about such things.

“What about the kids?” I like to believe they’ll survive no matter what happens.

“I’m the last of my line.” Well so am I.  My dad has no brothers and sisters and I’m a female only child. The Fletchers have had an important and impressive middle class pedigree that I, understandably, need to honor by passing on the family name, hopefully in the personage of a son (forgetting, of course, that my surname gives no regards to my mother’s filipino lineage from which I consider myself equally the result of).

It’s an easy decision to take a husband’s last name: there are already forms designated for the task, it’s a given in the minds of everyone you know so there won’t be any confusion, and honestly who cares about your name? It’s just a name. You don’t even like your last name! I just wish more women thought about the implications of it. It’s so ingrained, they’re so used to the concept that it’s considered something to look forward to: I’m a part of him! We’re a single unit now, our own family. Yay! I’m Mrs. Arlene DiCaprio! This union has made me an entirely new person, a combination of the two of us (the burden of proof of that hybrid  lying solely with me, however).

And honestly whatever the ladies want to do, fine. It’s your name, do what you like. Become Lady Sparklepants Moonbeam for all I care.  I just only hope that the guys will hear me out: since birth it’s been presumed that when I marry I will wake up the next day with a different name than the one I’ve had my whole life.  I will go through a lot of rigmarole to become this new mutant Arlene.  And even though I’ve spent 25+ years of my life figuring out who this Arlene Fletcher is there will be nothing to honor the loss of that name once it’s gone. Who will even remember it, besides myself and my parents? Did that person ever really exist?

So guys. Next time you hear a woman say she’s keeping her name post-nuptials, before you say a word, before you even let the indignation hit your brain cells, I want you to think of yourself, you, whoever you are, as Mr. [Your Name] Fletcher. Say it outloud. Let it roll around on your tongue, try it out for size.  How does that feel, this new name? Now that you’ve experienced taking on someone’s name for no other reason than that’s the name I have and you & I could fall in love and get married, have the decency to respect that the expectation is enormous and the decision shouldn’t be treated as a thoughtless given.  And at the very very least – the VERY least- at least sheepishly recognize that you have the incredible luxury of being able to keep your name and pass it on to your progeny without question, just through virtue of being born a man. That’s all I ask.

Do not attempt to squat here.

Once I pronounced the hamster pregnant we waited in anticipation for her to get bigger as confirmation that we could take her back to the store for a less pregnant pet. And as time went on evidence quickly mounted that I have no idea what I’m talking about.  So hamster gestation is 16 days and I’ve now owned her for 14 days. While she remains fat, she doesn’t have the extremely large belly girth that’s characteristic of truly pregnant hamsters.  I suppose there’s still a chance but my guess is it’s pretty slim, unlike the hamster. (Let’s not even entertain the idea that a rare hamster pregnancy phenomenon occurred, one I won’t describe in detail here but which one resource described with the phrase “absorbed back into the bloodstream.”)

In addition to being a fatty, she’s incredibly skittish and, unfortunately, kinda mean as a result.  She does bite somewhat, hasn’t drawn blood although she did hiss at my dad over the weekend. Basically she thinks we’re all either birds of prey or snakes. And now that she’s grown up it’s problematic since she can jump out of anything except her cage so I have no safe way for her to get used to me holding her without risking escape. Which has already happened. Fat bitch.

Well at least she’s still adorable to look at. Either way, with creatures of small brain weight it’s only a matter of time before you break their spirit and they succumb to a fate of Elmyra-like hugging.

So I suppose it’s time I stop calling her “Baby” or “Hammy” and starting calling her by her real name, Dame Winifred Artemis Jolie-Pitt, or Winnie for short, named for both the Pooh and the character from The Wonder Years which is STILL not available on DVD for shame. And Artemis because

me: I think she’s pregnant
boy: Really?
me: What’s the name of someone who’s a whore?
boy: Artemis!

Ever since I signed up a month ago, I haven’t shut up about Farm Day, an open house at Smith Meadows Farms out in Berryville, VA. If you’ve ever visited a farmer’s market in DC you’ve probably seen their stand.  The day finally happened yesterday and we got to meet the farm’s various animals and see how they care for several thousand animals on a relatively small acreage through ingenuity and sustainable farming practices.  These look like healthy animals I’d actually want to eat.

Watching these fatties come running out of their hutch expecting feed was pretty much the highlight of my morning.

It’s actually cheaper for the farmer to try to create ideal pasture conditions than to simply give the cows feed. It was cool to see how healthy and well-cared for these cows looked. Except wading through the grass was like navigating a mine field of poop bombs.

Farms that pasture their animals often sell honey since a successful pasture is a pollinated one.

These pigs live a pasture full of apple trees. The farmer doesn’t harvest the trees regularly so the pigs get their fare share. Apple-fattened pigs! Delicious. And cute, I suppose.

Farm Day is currently the highlight of my 2010, even though Adam forbade me from singing “Circle of Life” the entire time.

Okay so I never announced the new hamster’s name, mostly because very strong evidence is stacking up against her that she might be better suited for an episode of 6 Weeks and Pregnant (With Octoplets!).

Whore.

The Boy is pushing real hard for me to take her back to the store, citing an incident with our friend whose own baby hamster gave birth two weeks after bringing it home.  What followed was the most gruesome series of events that they traumatized our friend from ever replacing said baby hamster and he swore off the critters entirely.

But mostly I think he knows that as soon as those little poptarts come out that I’ll claim them as mine and set up 8 more hamster cages and name them all after Disney Afternoon characters.  Admittedly, I might already be trying to sneak her some hardboiled egg (supposed to be good for young hamster mothers) and obsessively tracking her weight to gauge the potential birthday.

But the real problem is that we’re going on vacation at the end of May, meaning we’ll be gone a a solid chunk of the crucial newborn phase and I’d need someone to come stay at my apartment to care for them.  Well, actually the real problem is that I’m completely smitten with her and don’t want to give her back, certainly not to the godawful pet store where the one girl helping us didn’t even know what a parakeet is. So I’m waiting, hoping she’s just a fatty, and seeing how this all plays out.  I suspect not that well.

(And I’m secretly calling her the name I gave her when no one is listening.)

The traditional period of hamster mourning has passed so this evening I went out and got a new baby hamster.  I asked friends for some good hamster names and here is the honest to God list I was given from a variety of individuals:

• Kraken
• Algermemnon
• Gaius Auratus
• Fuzzymandias
• Emergency Rations
• Captain
• Mayor Ben
• Peggy
• Bubbles
• Ms. Precious Perfect
• Puddin’ Tain
• Nibbler
• The Mangler
• Pickle
• Manuel
• Dr. Florence Hazeltine
• Booboo
• Hanz
• Miss Featherbottom
• Kit
• Baloo
• Ursula
• Kuma

Please. Help me come up with something better than this. (It’s a female but I’m not opposed to giving her a male name).

You’ve probably noticed the recent spate of young urbanites [Ed. notes: the people that I refer to as "young urbanites" are what I would've called "old yuppies" five years ago. Ahhhh relative age.] complaining about how their breeding companions bring their offspring to bars.  The issue barely holds my interest since I’ve never actually seen a child in a bar, meaning if they were present they were inconspicuous enough for me not to notice or I was overserved and wouldn’t have the capacity to alter my behavior in order to spare the souls of the children around me anyway. Maybe I thought they were midgets.

Anyway I was walking home today and noticed quite the congregation of toddlers and their keepers at the patio of The Brass Monkey, with more parents and babies arriving as I approached. When I managed to get a look inside it was as though the bar had been taken over by the Yo Gabba Gabba fan club. If any adult had managed to look up at that exact moment they would’ve seen my completely undisguised horror. WTF!? There is a seemingly organized baby happy hour at THE BRASS MONKEY!? Is this a ploy? Like Child Protective Services advertises a parent-toddler social hour at The Brass Monkey and sees what sort of horribly incompetent parents show up with their kids? I mean, has The Brass Monkey ever purchased anything that could remotely be considered a cleaning product? I figured they just let the drinks spill everywhere and let the alcohol provide an antiseptic cleaning for the floor. I wouldn’t be shocked if the Center for Disease Control has a file on it. So yeah, I’m on board. Keep the parents out of bars. And this isn’t even for me. It’s for the kids. They should never have to suffer from that indignity until they’re 21, completely tanked and trying to get some college tail.

Unfortunately last night we had to let sweet Gummi Bear go to the big hamster wheel in the sky.  The Boy wouldn’t let me send her body off on a burning pyre from Georgetown Harbor so I’m memorializing her the only way I know how.

Dust in the wind...

I have no idea why I’m getting so upset about this particular $6 rodent. And I know – RATIONALLY – it’s really silly to get this upset. But I had something that I loved and now it’s gone and I’m mourning it. So that’s that.

I’m mostly stooping to writing about the minutiae of my weekend in order to complain about Locolat Cafe. I like the food and coffee a lot but the owners are clueless dolts.  The wife runs front of house while the husband spends most of his time smoking, or running out for smokes. But we showed up this morning around 10am and wanted to sit outside and have a coffee while we waited to meet up with someone and the wife told us that the outdoors is only for people ordering food. Are you kidding me? It was half empty and we would take 15 minutes max. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you didn’t need my business. Does this mean my plans to go after work and get a beer and a pastry and read for an hour are unwelcome? I guess I’ll take my business over to L’Enfant which is like a true European cafe since everyone leaves you alone even when you want them to address you. Ugh annoying.

Anyway here’s what I did:

• Friday happy hour at Pizzeria Paradiso and then more drinks at Stoney’s where I solidified my title as Worst Shuffleboard Player of All Time.
• Saturday: I got a terrible night’s sleep and then I had to wake up early and buy Lady Gaga tickets. And then I went and got my bib for the Cherry Blossom run and then I got lunch at Taylor with a friend and then I spent a lot of money on clothes. Then a quick nap before dinner at Againn (ah-gwen) and A Prophet which was phenomenal. My favorite part was the unexpected soundtrack selections. Go check it out.
• Sunday: Woke up early, tried to get a coffee and sit outside at Locolat but instead moved over to the Marie Reed baseball diamond. And we noticed there was a large congregation of people watching two guys play tennis so we made our way over there.  Someone claimed that it was someone famous playing but they both played pretty average as far as I could tell. On our way back we were told a different story: the two guys bet $1,000 on the game, to be donated to charity. And those were his friends watching. Okay whatever. They weren’t that good at tennis.
• Stopped at the farmers market. The problem with it opening at 9am now is that everything is picked clean by 11am.  Oh well. Mike Isabella was there giving out lamb that was cooked over a pit on the grass. Pretty awesome.
• Brunch at Birch & Barley. I really adored the fried chicken. Something about the batter. I felt gross afterward and then took my inevitable 2 hour nap when I got home.

Now I’m trying to organize my apartment in some way but mostly I’m catching up on Gossip Girl which is complete crap these days. What a snoozefest. I’m also making some brownies for National Library Week; I’m making dulce de leche brownies which make my teeth hurt just looking at the batter. Yes I’m celebrating National Library Week. YOU SHOULD TOO. With a beer. It’s the standard National Library Week celebration libation.