Squirrel Thoughts Because life is a little bit nuts

Last Friday, after a week of suspense following her untimely encounter with a crazy-ass, uninsured drunk driver, I had to say goodbye to my beloved Jetta.

It was a bit emotional, I’m not gonna lie. Sure, she may have had a few flaws, but when you’re with the same car for seven years, you get a little attached, imperfections and all.

Now, in times like this, we could choose to wallow in our sorrows and dwell on the tragedy that befell our dear, sweet Jetta. But let’s try to remember the good times instead.

Like when she couldn’t ford an inch-deep creek without bottoming out and losing half her front bumper.

Or her infamous malfunctioning-alarm stage, which convinced everyone on my block that I was a certified psychopath.

Or the time she broke down on the way back to Great Falls from Missoula, and I had to take a Greyhound home, using what little change I could scrounge up to haggle for bus station bananas because no restaurants in the podunk towns along the way accepted debit cards.

OK, so it turns out she actually kind of sucked. Nevertheless, she will live in perpetuity, thanks to:

a) Google Street View

2) The fact that the accident happened on a Sunday/holiday/slow news day, and the local NBC affiliate had nothing better to report on.

Rest in peace, dear Jetta. Rest in peace.

Hey meme-makers, stop ruining the moment.

While awaiting the start of “The Hunger Games” at the theater the other day, a preview for “Titanic” in 3-D came on. Without missing a beat, I turned to Zach and, much to his chagrin, started reciting lines from the preview, perfectly in sync with the characters. (“They called it the ship of dreams. And it was. It really was.“)

See, like every 12-year-old girl growing up in America circa 1997-98, I was obsessed with that mesmerizing blockbuster. More precisely, I was obsessed with the one and only Leonardo DiCaprio. (Still am, really. Though I hear he’s a bit horrid-looking in “J. Edgar.”)

Now that it’s returned for one more magical stint in theaters — in 3-D, no less — I’m determined to re-create the experience all over again.

Which means I’ll need to watch it in the theater no fewer than five times.

And buy every copy of Tiger Beat and BOP and clip out every photo of Leo I can find.

And start a collection of said clippings, modge-podging my favorites to the outside of a manila folder that I keep with me at all times. Duplicates will line my locker, natch.

And record “My Heart Will Go” on cassette tape every time it plays on Star Station, Helena’s infamous purveyor of soft rock and adult contemporary hits.

And purchase not only the regular movie soundtrack, but also the second bonus release, called “Back to Titanic.” [That's right. There was a second "Titanic" soundtrack, and I spent my (parents') hard-earned money on it at ShopKo.]

And stay up until 2 in the morning with Ange-Pange, waiting for even more Leo photos to load on dial-up AOL. Yep, our love for him was so strong, not even dial-up Internet could keep us from expressing our devotion.

I know there are plenty other ways I could re-create that special time in my life, but I really shouldn’t embarrass myself by listing them here.

By now, everyone on Facebook has seen at least one friend repost some variation of the following meme.

Aside from its blatant disrespect for proper punctuation use, I have another problem with this meme, as well as pages like this one, which nearly 2 million people on the ‘Book like. And that’s the message that they send.

Now a few of those women on the top row are probably too thin to be considered healthy. (And no one can have as much plastic surgery as Heidi Montag and be considered “healthy.”) But Keira Knightly? She’s naturally thin and has muscle definition. And as long as she’s not starving herself or overexercising, then there’s nothing unhealthy about that. But instead of celebrating that as long as they’re healthy, both naturally thin and curvy body types are hot, this meme has to argue that one of them is better than the other.

As for the “Curvy girls are better than skinny girls” page, I wouldn’t have an issue with it if it were called something like “Curvy Girls Rock,” because they do. But so do women of other bodily proportions. And as one of those, I am fed up.

Now, before you have the urge to scream “why don’t you go enjoy your lettuce in hell, you skinny bitch!” let me explain:

When I was 15 or so, I remember reading an issue of CosmoGirl or Seventeen or some other bullshit teen magazine with an article proclaiming “Real Women Have Curves!” And I immediately thought to my gaunt, 90-pound, flat-chested, already-insecure self “Now I’m not even a real woman!! I’m some sort of androgynous freak!! No one will ever love me!! WAHHHHHHHHH!!”

I understand what those magazines were trying to do, but by attempting to make one subset of girls feel more confident about their bodies, they effectively lowered the self-esteem of others.

Don’t get me wrong; I now appreciate my petite figure and above-average metabolism. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to the laws of physiology though, and consistent bad habits and unhealthy behavior catch up to me, as they do with anyone. But when I do gain weight — which I did to the tune of 20 pounds during my alcohol-heavy and exercise-minimal college years — it doesn’t go straight to my butt or hips, but, rather, to my stomach and face. Yep, that’s as unflattering as it sounds:

What a steady diet of beer, tots and ranch does to my face. It's not good.

So even if I only ate chocolate-covered bacon and deep-fried cream puffs for a year, it would just turn me into a bobble-headed chipmunk caricature, not a curvalicious diva.

Basically, any time I’m exercising and eating right and, consequently, at a healthy weight for my height, it means I’m a 110-pound waif. And there’s not a lot I can do about it, just as there’s not a lot a naturally curvy woman can do to fit into a pair of size 2 jeans.

Now, does this mean I’m not a “real woman”? Of course not. But if you’re an insecure 15-year-old bombarded by messages screaming “REAL WOMEN HAVE CURVES,” it’s going to take you a while to believe otherwise.

I understand I’m probably in the minority here, and that society is much more unfair toward those who aren’t naturally svelte. And the media consistently portray thin women as the ideal to which all us ladies should strive, and that makes a lot of women feel bad about their bodies and go on insane diets, etc., to conform to that ideal.

But is tearing down another group of women the solution to making the other group feel better? Of course not. And, unfortunately, the media gon’ do what the media gon’ do. But why do we, as individual women, feel the need to perpetuate it on sites like Facebook and Pinterest?

So instead of doing that, how about we celebrate women with healthy bodies of all sizes, from pear-shaped women to boy-shaped women and every option in between? I bet then all of us — not just some — would feel better about ourselves, and we could starting learning to love whichever beautiful body we’re so blessed to have in the first place.

As proud bunny owners, Zach and I sacrifice a lot to make our house inhabitable for our wittle bitty fwuffy-wuffy furball of joy. And we don’t make any effort to hide it anymore. Yes, we’ve effectively become Those People. Please enjoy some depictions of this madness below.

***

First off, the Bunny House! Though Pancake loves it, I suspect Martha Stewart will not be calling to do a feature on it anytime soon.

Then there’s the smaller, less popular Vacation Home. It’s less popular because whenever we tell Pancake she’s “going on vacation,” it actually means she’s “going to the scary vet,” where they will poke and prod her. She does not poke, nor prod, well.

The Bunny Maze is much more popular. Hours of fun, and no scary vets in there!

***

Bunnies like to chew. On everything. All the time. It’s in their nature, and there’s no stopping it. To accommodate this, we try to provide Pancake with various natural bunny-chewing things. Such as sticks (store-bought, of course).

Phone books and bunny-shaped toys.

Old paper towel rolls.

Now, despite crap like this littering our entire living room, Pancake naturally gravitates toward the stuff she’s not supposed to chew on. Like electrical cords, which we’ve covered with plastic cord protectors, with a mild to moderate success rate.

Or remotes, which we’ve made a habit of facing down when not in use.

But sometimes we forget.

She also tends to chew on the edge where the carpet meets the tile, which we’ve deterred by covering it with a stylish combination of rugs and sheets.

***

When she’s not chewing on things, Pancake partakes in various activities, such as pushing neatly stacked DVDs off the TV stand.

She also enjoys eating hay, which is consequently scattered across our home. Nom nom nom!

Pancake also enjoys a good burrow under the couch. Because of this, we have to leave the recliners open at all times, since she’s less likely to hide under those sections if they’re open, meaning she’s less likely to get squished.

Also, before anybody, ANYBODY, is allowed to open or close them, they must have visual on the bunny, and that visual must be somewhere other than under the opposing ends of the couch. This is best left to the professionals. (NOTE: If you ever come over to my house and squish my bunny, I will squish you. And not in a good way.)

***

I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that Pancake is a fwuffy-wuffy wufferton. This means she needs a good brushin’ once a week or so. Pancake hardly likes to be touched, let alone picked up and brushed, so we had to get creative with our methods. The most effective one we’ve affectionately termed The Bunny Grab. It consists of several steps:

1) Block off all hiding places with pillows and such (under the couch, namely, which we often don’t bother unblocking anymore);

2) Locate the bunny and grab a blanket;

3) Chase said bunny around with said blanket, usually while she thumps out of pure, unadulterated fear;

4) Corner the bunny and cover her with the blanket;

5) Pick up the bunny while she’s rendered blind and helpless; and

(There's a bunny somewhere in there, I promise.)

6) Take the bunny to the closet in the guest room, where she can hop around a bit while we brush her and she doesn’t have to sit squirming in our laps the whole time.

And that folks, is how you successfully complete The Bunny Grab. It might sound cruel, but there’s no getting around it — she has to be brushed every once in a while or her system will clog with fur and make her really sick. It’s not fun for us, either, but we do it out of love.

***

You can see that maintaining a safe and healthy Bunny Room is hard work, which is why the doors to all the People Rooms in our home are closed at all times.

Curious by nature, Pancake desperately wants to explore the People Rooms whenever she gets a chance. Let the bunny into a People Room at your own risk though, as you’ll probably subject yourself to anywhere from five to 90 minutes of low-speed bunny chase as she rummages around under the bed, until you eventually spook her out with a broom handle.

***

After reading about all the upkeep a bunny-friendly home requires, you’re probably questioning our sanity. I don’t blame you, and I am the first to admit it’s not easy being a bunny slave. But it’s a lot harder to say no to a face like this.

The terrorists have won.

Scratch that. They’re not even going to bother with us anymore.

Hey, remember Popples? Of course you do, because they totally KICKED. ASS.

In case you missed out on the greatest toy fad of the ’80s, Popples were these magical teddy bear/bunny/pompom/clown crossover stuffed animals with sweet pouches they could roll up into.

The concept behind Popples was quite simple: You pop it in. You pop it out. Pop, pop, Popples! Giggles ensued. They could also keep some pretty neat shit in those pouches.

There were several varieties of Popples, such as:

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Standard Popple

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Baby Popple

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Sporty Popple

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Popples in a Boot

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French Popples

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Pompous Popples

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Edible Popple

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Card Catalog Popple

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Pervert Popples

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Drunk Off Their Asses on a Merry-Go-Round Popples

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Hippie Stoned Out of His Mind on a Bean Bag Popple

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Popples enjoying the annual Popple Convention

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And of course, the Original Popple

And he really just wants us to have some sweet iPhone apps.

Jesus: the Steve Jobs of his generation?