And She Says I'M Full of Crap?

The Mad Woman loves me. She really does. She's always in my face talking like a two year old with an "oochie boochie" this and a "squidgem widgem" that. It's smothering. It's annoying. But at least I know I am appreciated.

Today, however, I heard MW say that I was "full of crap". So a bit of poop found it's way out of the cage and onto the floor ... shit happens, you know? Nobody's perfect. It wasn't my fault that Nutmeg shrieked at me, sending me scrabbling for the pigloo, bits of bedding flying everywhere in my panicked duck for cover. And anyway, what makes MW think it was my poop? It could have just as easily been Nutmeg's. I get blamed for everything.

Full of crap. The nerve. I'll tell you who's full of crap. The Mad Woman, that's who. To hear her talk you'd think she was some artsy fartsy documentary-loving writer with crunchy granola tendencies. It's time she was outed.

"Ooh that documentary was so amazing. The camera work was exquisite.What an extraordinary cinema vérité piece." Cinema vérité? Is that's what they're calling America's Next Top Model these days cuz that's all I'm hearing coming out of the old boob tube you sit your ass in front of every night.

"I must be left alone to work on the computer today. This novel won't write itself you know." Apparently Facebook status updates and Twitter tweets don't write themselves either.

"I must get some of those edamame beans to snack on. They are so rich in protein and vitamins." Yeah, you do that. Maybe they'll be a nice compliment to the grotesque amounts of chocolate you hork back every night.

Who's full of crap now, sucker?

A Rap For Nutmeg

Heard music coming from the basement. It was music with an aggressive edge, music with a message. I wasn't sure of the genre until I heard the Mad Woman yell "Turn that crappy rap music off!" At that moment, with MW's shrill voice still ringing in my ears, I had an epiphany. This, I thought to myself, is a way to make Nutmeg listen. Simply talking to her doesn't work. But rap ... rap is powerful ... rap will help me stand up to my bossy little cagemate once and for all.

I have invited Nutmeg into the pigloo tonight at 7pm. It is then that I will perform "Will ya just listen to me for once, Nutmeg? Please?" (too harsh? keep in mind, I am in love with her)

Here it is:

Nutmeg why you be so mean
You think you are the bloody queen
Nutmeg why you be so rude
You be hogging all the food

Nutmeg, oh my Nutmeg, Nutmeg, oh my Nutmeg
(this is where I beatbox)

Nutmeg you know I love you girl
My head be spinning in a whirl
But why you always put me down
Always turn my smile upside down

Nutmeg, oh my Nutmeg, Nutmeg, oh my Nutmeg
(this is where I start making annoying scratch noises)

So Nutmeg please start to share
Oh Nutmeg please start to care
Or I'll be walking outta here
And I'll never come back .
Word.

So there it is. I am hoping that using the word "down" twice as an ending rhyme will not be my downfall. I welcome any comments or suggestions.

Living a Lie

I am but a mere guinea pig. Being puffed up with pride is a feeling as foreign to me as the country whose name describes my species. It's hard to be confident with a cage mate like Nutmeg, who scoffs at my advances and whose daily goal is to put me in my place with a push of her nose and an aggressive rumble.

I have been living a lie. On Twitter.

I thought a pompous English accent would make me sound important. I thought I'd be flooded with followers who'd be impressed with my suavity, ingratiated by my debonairness. But I was caught out. By a human with a strange name: Auntnancis. My mistake? Writing in my public profile that I was born and bred in Canada. Now I find myself caught in a hamster wheel of lies. "My dear old Mum was from Cavy-Upon-Avon." I tweeted. "She ingrained me with perfect diction." Round and round I go ... but how do I get off?

I know what I have to do. But will I be brave enough to do it?

The Triviality Of Human Complaints

I overheard the Mad Woman grumbling yesterday.

"I can't wait until winter and the season of long pants. I'm like SO tired of shaving my legs. They're smooth one day - all Sasquatchy the next. I'm exhausted. It's wearing me down."

"Wearing me down?" Pish. Try having to wear down open rooted teeth that grow continuously every single day of the year. Gnaw, gnaw, gnaw. Chew, chew, chew. That, my dear lady, is a burden. So, please, keep your depilation dilemmas and hairy hang-ups to yourself.

Threads of Death

My celery was not cut to my specifications today. The mad woman should know better. Long stringy celery threads? I think she is trying to kill me.

Hunger prevailed. While eating the threads of death I prayed to the cavy gods that Nutmeg knew the Heimlich maneuver.