I can still smell rabbit poop

I foolishly thought we could save him.

That buying alfalfa from Yellow Cab when none could be found at the supermarket would be the trick that would keep our beloved bunny Smoke alive.

That bringing him to the garden to graze on grass and hop around would cheer him up enough and snap him out of his funk.

But no, he was sad. So incredibly sad, so different from the bunny we first met. And who can blame him? We were sad too, incredibly sad. We lost a pet but Smoke lost his best friend.

I was trying to stay positive but I knew at the back of my mind it was going to happen, even if he did show signs of getting better, even if he started to seem okay.

And so, on Monday morning, when Jill said, “Check on Smoke” and I said, “I’m scared” but still went straight for the bathroom where Smoke’s cage was, I knew what I was going to find.

And there was Smoke – snuggled between his water bowl and the box that was supposed to be his cozy bed. I was still a few feet away but I already knew he was dead.

“Smoke!” I called his name even though I knew he wouldn’t hear me.

I walked up to the cage. He didn’t move in anticipation of food like he usually does.

Smoke was dead.

He stayed two extra days with us, two days of sadness, worry, love and care. Two days of spoiling and of complete adoration. Two days of alfalfa and poop.

Unlike Ash, Smoke died with his eyes closed. He looked almost peaceful, like he was just sleeping.

But this time I put my foot down. I may have been brave enough to pick up Ash and put him in the box but I cannot do the same with Smoke. Of the two, Smoke was my baby, my little furball, the one I snuggled with, my cuddle bunny. I didn’t want to feel him lifeless. I didn’t want to forget his warmth.

Manang Amy stepped up and put Smoke in his box.

The previous day, we had visited CRIBS to celebrate Jill’s birthday with the babies there. We brought them toys and gifts and Le gave us boxes and boxes of Rustan’s Care For The Rare Stuffed Toys to give to the kids too. “Keep the boxes after,” Jill said, thinking about how much Smoke loved to play and hide and sleep in boxes.

We had twenty-four boxes in all. And on the way back from CRIBS, I wondered if he’d live long enough to use them all. He didn’t. He only used two – one was his bed, the other one became his coffin.

When Manang Amy brought the cage out of the room, I refused to look. It was too painful.

As we were leaving, Jill said, “Manang Amy buried Smoke.”

“She didn’t wait for us?” I asked.

But when we went out, we saw that the hole was still empty, Smoke wasn’t in his grave yet.

Where was his body?

We started searching. Slowly, I was beginning to panic. What if a cat had dragged him off? What if someone mistakenly threw him away?

“He was just here,” Manang Amy said, pointing towards the den.

And instantly, we knew what had happened.

Our eyes turned to the pile of boxes that were still in a huge Rustan’s paper bag. Manang Amy picked the one on top of the pile and looked inside it.

“Ito nga.”

“Ma, did you take a box from here?” Jill hollered to her mom who was in her office in the attic.

Yes, yes, she did. She thought it was heavy because a stuffed toy was still inside.

We ended up laughing.

Laughing. Again. At a bunny funeral.

This time, Jinna wasn’t there. But I made sure I put a flower on top of Smoke’s box – I knew she’d like that.

It’s been a couple of days since Smoke’s death and I still miss him and Ash terribly.

I miss watching them eat. I miss having them hop all over the place. I miss marveling at how sweet they were to each other, how they always slept huddled up. I miss cuddling with them. Fuck, I even missing cleaning their pee.

The bathroom is unusually clean and it feels a little empty. I still feel like calling out their names sometimes. The smell of Irish Spring reminds me of days and nights spent scrubbing their cage. Last night, I changed to a new roll of toilet paper and stopped when I realized I no longer had bunnies waiting to play with the core. It’s been days but I can still smell rabbit poop.

I can only console myself with the thought that they’re now playing together in bunny heaven.

Do I want new bunnies? No. I don’t think I can take another bunny heartbreak. Do I regret having Smoke and Ash in the first place? Hell no. I will forever cherish the short time we had together. I will always be thankful that I had the chance to get to know them.

I had two bunnies and I loved them to death.

Laughing at a bunny funeral

(Do not proceed if you do not want to read about poop, diarrhea, death and a lot of crying. You’ve been warned.)

I will admit, it was my brilliant idea.

“Why don’t we give her a rabbit?” I said to Jill, as we planned her niece Jinna’s Christmas gifts this year.

She was reluctant at first but I regaled her with stories about Brucey my bunny and we talked about how this might be a good way to teach Jinna about being responsible. She caved.

Numerous phone calls to different pet shops resulted in nothing – strangely, they had all run out of bunnies. But we were told we might find our answer in one place – Tiendesitas.

“We sell them in pairs. Because if not, they get lonely and die after three days,” a lady at a sad little pet store told us.

We went to a different pet shop manned by a guy with multiple piercings. He was willing to sell us just one bunny but we decided to get two – we didn’t want a lonely bunny. It took a long time and a lot of cuddling and cooing before we finally made our choice. We picked two boys – a beautiful white bunny with gray markings and a fat little bunny with very pale brown-gray fur and the most incredible dark brown nose.

We cuddled them on the way home, we were worried that the car ride would stress them out. We kept talking about names. “Amy and Adele.” “Michael and Jackson.”

Finally, Jill decided. The white and gray bunny would be called Ash. And the brownish gray one would be called Smoke.

Ash and Smoke.

They were playful bunnies, funny little creatures who liked exploring.

On New Year’s Eve, we finally introduced Jinna to her new pets. She adored them and was gentle with them, petting them and feeding them.

The bunnies stayed in Jill’s room – during the day they were allowed to run free and play, at night they slept in a cage in her bathroom. We made sure they were comfortable, that they never ran out of food and water, that they had toilet paper cores and boxes to play with.

We had a few days of bliss with the bunnies – bliss only marred by the need to clean their cages twice a day because rabbit pee plain stinks.

Every night before they sleep, I’d have my cuddle time with Smoke while Jill and Ash would play. Smoke was the sweeter bunny, Ash was a little grumpy but they were equally adorable.

And then, diarrhea happened. Smoke was the first one who got it. Research told me that it wasn’t actually diarrhea – that the explosive mess we were seeing were unformed cecotropes. Following instructions from bunny experts, we made changes in their food intake and carefully cleaned the rabbits, the cage and their bowls. The next day, Smoke seemed to be getting better but Ash had diarrhea too. Again, we cleaned them up (it was a very messy process – you know it’s true love when you’re touching someone else’s poop), tried to hydrate them and make them comfortable. Smoke was still playful and constantly eating but Ash wasn’t as energetic.

He didn’t seem extremely sick. He didn’t seem like he was going to die.

At around 3 in the morning, Jill checked on the bunnies and started yelling. “Ash is not moving!”

My heart started beating triply fast. I looked at Ash and started crying. He was by the cage door, completely still. What was scary was how thin he suddenly looked. He still looked normal just a few hours before. But his ears looked alert and his eyes were wide open.

Maybe we could still save him.

I ran to my computer and tried to figure out what we can do. “Let’s go, let’s get him that water solution a girl used to revive her rabbit,” I said to Jill.

“He’s dead!” Jill said.

“No he’s not!”

“He’s dead.”

We went back to the cage in the bathroom. I clapped my hands. Ash didn’t move. I moved the cage. Ash didn’t move. I called his name. Ash didn’t move.

Ash was dead.

Jill and I were crying and crying and crying. Smoke was still in the messy cage and we wanted to get him out. But getting him out meant opening the cage door Ash was leaning against. Neither of us wanted to touch Ash. I didn’t want to feel him cold and lifeless. I wanted to remember him as the beautiful, warm, grumpy furball that he was. Jill felt the same way.

We thought of calling Manang Amy to ask her to help us but it was 4 in the morning.

We left the bathroom, sat on Jill’s carpet and continued to cry.

“You do it.”
“Di ko kaya.”
“Di ko din kaya.”

But I knew I had to set my fear aside. Smoke, who was probably terrified and confused, needed to get out of that cage. And Ash needed to be put to rest.

I walked back to the bathroom still crying. I knelt by the cage, took a deep breath and opened the cage door. There was a part of me that was hoping Ash would move when the cage door opened. That he’d still be alive.

But he was dead.

I took another deep breath and reached out for him. It was like picking up a stuffed animal. It was like he was never alive. I put him in a box. His gray ears stuck out of it. I put the lid on the box and turned to Smoke who looked sad, really sad.

I wanted to make sure he was okay. I wanted to make sure he wasn’t on the verge of dying too.

Smoke hopped over to me when he heard me open his bag of food. He was so hungry he started climbing all over the bag. To our relief, he started eating. And eating. And that was a very good sign.

Smoke returned to his cage for the night, looking sad. I knew he was missing Ash.

The next day, Smoke seemed fine. His poop was looking better too. But he was sad. So incredibly sad. We let him out of the cage and stayed in one corner of the bathroom. We gave him toys, he ignored us. We gave him food, he ignored us.

Manang Amy dug a hole by Jill’s mango tree. The four of us – Manang Amy, Jill, Jinna and I – held a quick bunny funeral.

Jinna showed me a flower she had picked from the garden. She carried Ash’s box downstairs, placed it in the hole and put the flower on top of the box before Manang Amy started shoveling dirt to cover it.

“Jinna, lead the prayer.” we said.

She smiled sheepishly. “Umm… di ako ready.”

“Sige na, pray ka lang,” we said to her.

And she started praying.

“Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ, Our Lord. Amen.”

The prayer before meals. At a bunny funeral.

I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. And I couldn’t stop. Tears streamed down my face, tears for Ash, but I also couldn’t stop laughing. Jill couldn’t stop laughing either.

It was a crazy funeral, short, funny, sad – just like our quick roller coaster ride with our beloved Ash.

Jill posted on Twitter last night: “I hope all bunnies go to heaven.”

I know Ash is in bunny heaven. And I hope he’s watching over Smoke because he’s still extremely sad.

Thankfully, he liked the stuffed rabbit we left by his side. At least he still has a bunny to cuddle with. And he’s started eating again – carrots did the trick.

At this point, I am willing to do anything to make Smoke happy again – cartwheels, card tricks, I’d freaking eat fire.

Because God help us, we are going to keep this rabbit alive.

Searching for Sylvia

Today, my beloved book store failed me.

Last night, I updated my Facebook album of “Books I’ve Read In 2011″ and realized two things:

1. I’ve read 66 books this year – 65, actually, because I read Dash and Lily’s Book of Dares twice. And that means I haven’t been meeting my goal to read at least ten books a month.

2. I read like I’m a 13-year-old girl. The books I’ve read so far this year are an embarrassing mix of young adult favorites, chick lit, non-fiction, a few memoirs, crime and Justin Bieber.

And those realizations led to more realizations:

1. Fuck, I’m 30 years old. I cannot be reading like a 13-year-old.

2. Holy shit, no. I’m not 30, I’m almost 31. That’s even more embarrassing.

3. While I have a huge pile of books waiting to be read, they’re of the same variety – my trail mix of juvenile fun and sexy trash. And that leads us to number…

4. I need to buy new books.

5. I need to buy books because Sylvia Plath was 30 when she put her head in the oven and left behind Pulitzer-worthy poetry and here I am, same age as she was when she said goodbye, wasting my time, choosing to swim in marshmallow fluff.

6. I knew what I needed to do. I needed to find Sylvia Plath.

I own several of her books but I have no idea where they are. I’ve never finished any of them, her sadness always scared me. But I think I’m ready now.

And so today, I went to the book store. I dumped my laptop and bag into a cart and proceeded to check every inch of their shelves for signs of Sylvia.

There were none.

I checked everywhere. Biographies, memoirs, poetry, literature, award-winning literature, fiction, non-fiction. I found nothing. I checked children’s books, dictionaries, travel books, self-help, graphic novels, effing cook books. No Sylvia.

Not happy to be defeated and not willing to walk away empty-handed, I decided to find other books to read instead.

I walked out of the book store with The Complete Stories of Franz Kafka and The Portable Dorothy Parker.

They’re not Sylvia but Frank and Dorothy will have to do while I continue my search for Sylvia.

Pop pop pop

The trouble with having access to excellent microwave popcorn is it ruins your movie popcorn experience.

The barbecue-flavored cinema popcorn you used to love now tastes like cardboard. Stale cardboard. Because how can that compare to the awesomeness of Blast O Butter?

So goodbye, cardboard popcorn. Hello, chocolate-covered almonds.

I gave a talk about my book at a school last week and one of the students asked, “What kind of movies do you like watching?”

Every kind, I said, my friends and I watch practically every movie released. Actually, I said it more crudely than that. “Lahat ng movie pinapatulan namin.” Hi, I’m Pam and I’m a movie slut.

But my intentions are pure. I want to help keep the movie industry alive. Yes, just like I want to keep the publishing industry alive by buying more books than I can read. And as my pile of unread books keeps growing and growing, I tell myself I will get around to reading all of them eventually.

I am currently reading a book that is moving so slow. I am halfway done and I feel like nothing’s happening. I am tempted to just drop it but I’m trying to give it another chance. I very rarely stop reading a book even when I think it’s bad. It just feels like cruel abandonment.

I have a feeling I will be able to watch a lot of movies and read a lot of books this month. Because I am just days away from what shall be known as 18 days of loneliness.

It will be tough but I will suck it up.

Because that’s what you do. You suck it up, you watch movies and you swim in books.

Oh blue, you aren’t so bad.

My blue hair started growing on me today. I guess it helped that I wore a blue shirt. And that I painted my nails blue. And that I got a haircut. And that the cut ended with a perfect blowout.

I like my blowout.

I asked Jill, “If you get really really really insanely rich, what would your biggest luxury be?”

And she said, “I want a beach house.”

That’s cool. I’d definitely hang out at her beach house. But I don’t want my own. I don’t want cars, big houses, planes and my own island.

You know what I want?

I want one of those salon shampoo chairs and I want someone to come in and give me a salon shampoo every day.

You know what else I want? Someone to fill my iPod with songs I’ve forgotten I love. When I hear songs on the radio, I keep going, “Holy crap, why don’t I have that in my iPod?” And then I completely forget about them again. I just want to be able to shuffle without skipping over any song.

I was up until 5 a.m. working on an article and after I slammed my laptop shut I settled back with my new copy of Nick and Norah’s Playlist. I am reading two Cohn + Levithan novels at the same time. Dash and Lily, Nick and Norah. Both for the second time. And no, I’m not getting confused, even though in my head both couples are Michael Cera and Kat Dennings.

I love Kat Dennings. And Michael Cera.

This week is bound to be busy, the good kind of busy, the kind that makes you want to run around and hug people and scream, “Life is awesome!”

There is a lot of awesomeness in the world.

And right now, awesomeness is a big tub of popcorn which I need to make.

I’m blue.

And I mean that literally and figuratively.

I’m sad because my hair is blue.

It’s not purple, it’s not blurple, it’s god damn blue.

And it was supposed to be purple. The label on the bottle said “deep purple,” for fuck’s sake. And I’ve been using that brand and that shade for years. For years. But apparently, they decided to change the formula. And the formula wants everyone to have blue hair. So much for democracy and the freedom of choice.

It smells different too.

And I thought yesterday’s low point would be the ten minutes I spent on that elliptical machine, otherwise known as the machine of death. By the time I stepped off, my legs were rubber. I have no idea how I managed to walk across the gym to get to the stairs.

The truth is, I only go through cardio to get to the best part – boxing. And I have to admit, despite the exhaustion and aches and pains, it was fun brushing the dust off my gloves.

After boxing yesterday, I headed straight for my hair dresser who, luckily, was willing to wait for me past closing time. I sat in his chair for three hours, getting bleached, getting dyed, watching TV, restocking my Tiny Tower, getting reacquainted with Nick and Norah, talking about his past love.

I left his salon with blue hair.

It’s probably going to turn purple after I take a bath, I thought, thinking that the color just looked blue because it was so intense.

But when I turned on the shower, I started dripping blue. The suds turned purple when I shampooed, giving me hope. Yes! Yes! Yes! That’s more like it! I thought, as the purple suds covered the floor, making the bathroom look like a purple crime scene.

I stepped out of the shower, got dressed and the first thing Giff told me when he saw me was, “Beks, your hair is blue.”

Insert your favorite expletive here.

When the plan is Grimace and you are turned into Cookie Fucking Monster, I think you have the right to want to punch something.

But I didn’t. I am trying to be mellow about it (yes, this is mellow). When life gives you blue hair, you drink lemonade. But there was no lemonade to be found. So I grabbed a Hoegaarden and I drank it in a cup with ice. Beer. In a cup. With ice. And I didn’t even finish the whole thing. When did I become such a wuss?

When I had blue hair, that’s when.

RIP, Raw Hair Dye. We had some good times. But I am now switching to Manic Panic.

Purplexing

Guess what.

My hair is still black.

I thought I’d be dripping purple by now but no. My meeting started too late, the damn salon refused to wait and now I’m rhyming like an idiot. An idiot with black hair.

So instead, I ate salad, pork chops, a lot of vegetables and spent Friday night in the supermarket.

That’s how you know you’re getting old. Screw partying, let me hang out here by the dairy section.

It was enjoyable, it really was.

So the trip to the salon has been moved to tomorrow – but not at the original salon. Because if you’re bitchy, you don’t get my money. (Please, God, make the rhyming stop.)

And after the salon trip, I will dust off my gloves and start boxing again.

Purple dye and punches. I can’t wait.

Big banging

Today was one of those days that make me wish I had at least ten pairs of hands and five heads.

There were just too many things that needed to be done – watch pages, finish articles, conduct survey, call people, reply to people, e-mail people, phone interview, caption photos, choose winners, tag prizes, pick up package, ship package, send gift, fix schedule, find dye, clean out bag, and on and on and on.

And that juggling act becomes even harder when what you really want to do is watch The Big Bang Theory.

And update your Tiny Tower.

Some things needed to be sacrificed so I ate just once the whole day. It was remarkable – I swallowed four dumplings while typing. And I skipped my much-needed pedicure.

But some things cannot be sacrificed, not if you want to keep your sanity. So I watched The Big Bang Theory in the car. Yes, while in traffic.

It’s always essential to keep your priorities straight.

One day I’ll be Xena

How the hell are you doing it, Tony Pierce? You still blog like it’s 2003. And I’m jealous.

They’re all gone. Mad Pony. Goobita. Sepi. Duke Kim. Some have had babies, some completely disappeared. But you, you’re still here. Congratulations, you’re the last man standing.

And I’m glad you are. But haven’t you been lonely?

Today I went to watch the Smurfs movie. It was totally what I expected – a Chipmunks movie with little blue people instead of squirrels. And that makes me kinda sad because I have a strange attachment to the Smurfs. They deserve so much better. But really, what kind of movie can you write for the Smurfs?

They could have exploited Smurfette’s potential sluttiness. But that wouldn’t be too kid-friendly.

Two Halloweens ago, I promised myself I’d be Smurfette for the following Halloween. That didn’t happen. There was no exploitation of sluttiness. I became a bee instead – a freezing bee in the West Village Halloween Parade. I wonder what I’d be this year.

A zombie-seeking plant. Super Mario. Xena. I’ve always wanted to be Xena.

Last week I was interviewing someone and as we were nearing the end of an almost two-hour conversation, he stopped and said, “What about you, Pam? Tell me about yourself.” And it completely threw me off. Because that never happens. You usually get there, switch on your recorder, ask the questions, let them talk about themselves, switch off your recorder and leave.

It was so unusual that I ended up stammering. I’m 30, I’ve been doing this for 13 years.

But I should have talked about wanting to be Xena. Or how I’m freaked out because my beer limit has hit an all-time low of one bottle. Or that I finally watched The Bodyguard for the first time and kept wishing someone would just shoot Whitney Houston because her character was so goddamn annoying. Or that I can’t fire Katy Perry from my Tiny Tower even if she wants to work in a tattoo parlor and I don’t have one. Or how I just ordered a new Helmer even though I promised to stick to just one. Or how I always feel breathless when I’m inside book stores. And that I am currently obsessing over Rachel Cohn and David Levithan. Or that I made cheese pimiento like my grandmother makes it and it made me so happy. Or that I thought I would burst because Rachael Yamagata sent me a sweet message about my book. And that I should really finish the next one. Or that I am now sweating on the world’s softest carpet. Or that I’m dyeing my hair purple again on Friday. Finally.

Dear Amy

Tonight I made a grilled cheese sandwich.

I slathered butter onto two slices of wheat bread – “slathered” being almost a lie because the butter was frozen and therefore hard to work and “wheat” being a truth because I am pretending to eat healthy. There was a huge hunk of cheese in the pantry but I couldn’t use it because it was bad. I didn’t think cheese could go bad. Isn’t cheese bad milk in the first place? Isn’t cheese like wine? The older it gets the better it is? Apparently not. The hunk of cheese was bad, it turned bad last May, so I had to use cheese from a bag, cheese that was meant to be pizza topping, cheese that ended up not fulfilling its purpose because it ended up between my slices of bread.

Jill didn’t want me to use the grilled cheese press because it was dirty. They tried cleaning it once, twice, three times but it still had gunk from the last time someone used it. But the gunk was invisible so I didn’t mind. Jill minds gunk – visible or not. So I used the gunky cheese press and she used the oven to make her sandwich.

My sandwich was ready faster than hers – probably because I chose not to spread tomato sauce on mine and probably because I’m impatient. My grilled cheese broke in two like it’s supposed to. It was still hot while I started to eat and it burned my tongue, naturally. I stood there, by the stairs, eating my grilled cheese, enjoying the mozzarella, waiting for Jill’s sandwich to be done. It wasn’t a big moment, it was a tiny moment when you think about it, but I felt so alive.

I felt so alive while you are dead.

I still can’t believe you’re dead.

Countless people have said no one should be surprised, that you had it coming, that you brought death upon yourself, that it was expected. I did not expect it. Because even as I watched you downward spiral again and again and again, I had hoped you’ll get better. That you’ll finally find love that wouldn’t lead to nights spent roaming in London wearing blood-spattered shoes. That you’ll find peace.

Maybe you have. Now.

My heart still hurts when I think of you, when I play your songs, when I watch your videos. It sounds stupid to be mourning for someone I’ve never met, someone I’ve never seen, someone I never really knew.

But I do not need a beehive and a drug habit to relate to you, a funny, stubborn girl who wanted mad passionate love, who chased after her desires with wild abandon. On some days, I am you.

Amy, Amy, Amy. Tonight I made a grilled cheese sandwich. Then I thought of you.