the little things

Little rat feet.

/ Spoken Like A True Nut / 9 Comments

My happy thought for the past two weeks has been little rat feet.

We recently took in a transfer of four baby rats at the shelter. They’re teeny and sweet and inquisitive and perfect and my heart just melts into a big puddle of syrupy joy any time I get anywhere near them.

For the general protection of the animals, we’re not allowed to take photos of them, but they basically look like this, white socks and all:

I could watch them scamper around and twitch their bitty whiskers all day. I don’t, because there are dishes to wash and litter boxes to scour and endless mounds of laundry to cycle through, but the temptation is there.

They love to lick my fingers. They nibble at my nails and my rings. And when their curiosity emboldens them enough to step onto my hand with their little rat feet- oh! those little rat feet give me life.

To anyone who’s not a fan of rats or has never handled one, this probably sounds really weird. I myself can’t even really put a finger on why it’s such a neat sensation. Maybe it’s the delicacy of their tiny toes, or the astonishing way they can grip onto nearly anything like Velcro. Maybe it’s the way their feet run slightly cool in contrast to their warm furry bodies. Whatever it is, it’s magical. 5/5, would recommend.

Sadly for me (but happily for the rats), our time together is likely to be short-lived. Two of the four have already found a home, and I’m sure the other two will follow suit in no time. They’re way too adorable not to get scooped up by someone.

I’ll miss them when they’re gone but I’m sure the kitties, who I usually spend the most time with when I’m not distracted by impossibly cute baby rodents, will be happy to have my full attention back in their absence.

And hey, little cat feet are pretty awesome too. I hear those are how the fog gets around, and we all know how I feel about fog.

This is why I’m The Nut, Part II

/ Spoken Like A True Nut / 13 Comments

I get irrationally excited about fog. You know how in the winter, children will wake up and immediately bolt for the window to check if it’s snowing? That’s what I’m like once October hits, except about fog.

We’ve had some disgustingly beautiful weather the past few days, and I’ll have none of that. It’s October. I’m supposed to be swaddled in layers of fleece hoodies and scarves and gloves with those special fingertips that let you text while wearing them. I’m not supposed to be sweating my way over to Starbucks in a tank top to get my goddamn pumpkin spice latte. How are us white girls supposed to drink our PSLs in our Ugg boots* when it’s not boot weather, I ask you?!

But today…today I knew something was different. The sun still greeted me as I pulled out of our underground parking, yes, but underneath that cheerful glow there was a clamminess to the air and a sense of promise. There will be fog today, that clamminess whispered to me. Don’t worry about that jackass sun, we’ll take care of him. We’ll take care of him REAL good.

I wondered what the clamminess meant by, “we”, but I didn’t ask, because if there’s some kind of organized weather mafia out there, I’d just as soon turn a blind eye.

By the time I got to work, the skies were a flat, uniform grey. As I turned onto our road I could see a haze descending on the mountains through my passenger side window.

Soon, the clamminess whispered.

And then, just before ten, I looked out the window, and a thick swirl of fog looked back.

Slowly, and with much dignity, I rose from my chair, exited my cubicle and strolled casually over to the window. Which involved an impressive amount of self-restraint considering I was as excited as a dog that’s just found its favorite ball behind the sofa. “BALL! BALL BALL BALL BALL BALL!” goes the dog. “FOG! FOG FOG FOG FOG FOG!” goes The Nut.

And I leaned on the windowsill and I gazed at my beloved autumn fog with a big happy stupid grin on my face.

I love October.

 

*DISCLAIMER: I do not own Ugg boots. I think they’re awful and therefore I am a disgrace to white girls everywhere.

Life is too short for boring socks.

/ Spoken Like A True Nut / 6 Comments

It’s been said often, and with good reason: it really is about the little things.

I didn’t feel like writing today. I haven’t felt like doing much of anything all week. Getting out of bed this morning and yesterday was a struggle; Monday and Tuesday I was too out of it to even bother putting up the fight. I’m sick of being sick, I’m tired of being tired, and my energy reserves are running on empty. But at least I have my goddamn Tweety Bird socks on. And that matters more than you might think.

Hold on to your hats, we’re going to get all real in here for a moment.

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