Friday, April 25, 2008

Let's hear it for the rat-boys


(Cecil, left, and Roman, right)


My love affair with rats began in my 7th grade science classroom. My teacher, Mrs. Broyles, had two rats named Patches (a girl) and Justin (a boy). She bred them, and that's how I got my first rat, Toby. I've since loved rats, but didn't have any more pet rats until 2006. My desire for pet rats as an adult started on a whim. I scoured craigslist.com and found two boys that interested me. I named them Roman and Cecil. It was love at first sight.

Cecil, born in August 2005, was about a year old when I got him, and Roman, born in February 2006, was six months old. Rats only live to be 2-3 years, but Cecil was a charming boy and he needed a good home and I was more than happy to take the boys in.


Roman, the first day I met him (August 2006).

Since he was six months older, Cecil was the dominant male. I used to watch their cage like a television set; Roman would grab a bite of food and begin to eat it. Cecil would snatch the food from Roman's paws. Roman would look sad and then get more food while Cecil scarfed down the food he just grabbed. Cecil would then grab the next piece of food from Roman. Roman couldn't eat a thing without it getting stolen, and Cecil wouldn't eat anything he didn't steal. Sad, but funny.

Cecil had chronic respiratory problems, even when I first got him. He was always wheezing and coughing.

Cecil, December 2007

He was a dumbo rat, which means he had a genetic mutation that causes big ears low on the sides of his head. Sooooo cute.

He liked to run around the living room and chase my cat, Cleo. He also liked bananas and peanuts. On the morning of January 16, 2008, I found Cecil cold and limp on the floor of his cage. He was still breathing, but barely. I had him euthanized immediately.

Roman was the sweet boy. He was a blue berkshire rat, with adorable pink ears, feet, and nose. He was the more laid-back of the two. He preferred snuggling to exploring, and would fall asleep on me while I watched TV. My wonderful veterinarian told me that Roman was the most laid-back rat he'd ever met. Coming from an exotic pet specialist, that's saying a lot. Roman was a good match with Cecil, because he never fought.

When he was 15 months old, he had a bad ear infection which led to a permanent head tilt as seen here:


The head tilt led to a lot of confusion in my poor little boy. He often thought he was upside down, and he would flip over when it wasn't necessary. He always looked like he was asking a question. He still loved climbing up into his hammock, though.

I had Roman euthanized on April 23, 2008 after he'd felt cold to the touch for three days. He was responsive, but just barely. He couldn't reach his water bottle, and I saw him fall over backwards while sitting on his haunches. I didn't want to do it, but I didn't want him to suffer. I didn't want to find him like I found Cecil.


Roman, April 2008

He slept in my bed his last few nights. I slept with him nuzzled in my shirt to keep him warm. He didn't move much during the night, and he didn't chew anything up. All he did was sleep, cuddle, and give me little kisses. He didn't even do that much on his last day. He was just lying quietly.



I miss them both dearly, and they will never be replaced. They made my life much nicer for the short time they were with me. I love them both so much.


Cuddlebugs circa September 2006.


Rest in peace, Roman and Cecil.

Love, Zoe

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Freaky Stalker / Sharkies!

You know those car rental commercials where the person's regular car is all jealous of the rental car, and is saying things like, "Oh, so she just goes to Miami and leaves me here for two days, and I'm supposed to pretend like she doesn't smell like new car? Oh, she was with a Prius. So suddenly she's an environmentalist," dripping with sarcasm? (They are showing the commercials non-stop during hockey games, so I've seen it, like, a million times.) That voice makes me cringe EVERY time I hear it. Waaaayyy too realistic. I've heard that voice before, and it's not a good sign. I don't know who that commercial is targeting- psycho ex-boyfriends? Disturbed individuals who relate to cars? Stone Temple Pilot fans? I'm not going to say which rental car company the commercials are for, but I'm never renting from there again. Seriously. Who is their ad agency, Stalker, Domestic Violence, and Murdered My Ex-Wife And Her New Boyfriend? Simpson, Dangond, and Peterson?

At least they are more tolerable than the eHarmony and Girls Gone Wild commercials.

Go Sharks!

Love, Tegan Jovanka

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

An exception

I'm on record with my lack of romantic / sexual interest in hockey players (despite my deep and enduring love of hockey). The official haircut of the NHL is the mullet, for crying out loud. Missing teeth, broken noses = not attractive. However, there are always exceptions.

As much as I love a guy with glasses (and I do), this picture of Pittsburgh Penguins goalie Marc-Andre Fleury doesn't do him justice. You have to hear him talk. He has the heaviest French-Canadian accent ever, and it’s unbelievably hot. I'm not usually a sucker for accents, but I guess the warm fuzzies I feel for Canadians cancels out the inherent sleaziness of the French, which confuses my brain when I hear the two accents combined, thus leaving me defenseless against the raw sexual power of the French accent and my repressed desire for Canadians. Yes, I admit it. Canadians turn me on. They are the perfect combination of niceness, intellect, tolerance, unpretentiousness, and beer-swilling passion for hockey fights.

Furthermore, goalies have been toying with me for years. In-between plays, they are constantly doing the splits and these stretches that make it impossible for me not to stare, entranced, at their ass. They may be covered with pads, but it’s still sexy. I am not ashamed, damn it. I am hot for Canadian goalies.

Love, Tegan Jovanka

P.S. Zoe, you’ll have to forgive me for following your touching and heartfelt post with my fantasies of touching our neighbors north of the border. I feel so dirty.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

No more tangles
























This is my hair. All of it. I shaved it off completely last Thursday for the first time in six years. As you'll notice, that's not a lot of hair. Keep in mind that my hands are the size of a 10-year-old's, and my hair was fairly long...a couple of inches past my shoulders.

Over the past 19 years, I've lost about 70% of the hair I had as a little girl. No one knows why. I have completely stumped 14 different doctors including internists, dermatologists, and endocrinologists.

The worst thing about it was the reactions I got as a teenager. When you're 14 years old and losing your hair, people assume that you're scrubbing your head with steel wool doused in turpentine. I've been asked a lot of stupid questions, and been given a lot of stupid advice. I've had strangers tell me to lean forward as often as I can so I'll improve circulation to my head. I've been told that my hair must have fallen out from blow-drying it too much. I've been a vegetarian since I was 17, and I have been told that my hair fell out from not eating enough meat. For this and many other reasons, I've barely left the house with a "bare head" since 2000.

A few weeks ago, I had a scalp biopsy after my new endocrinologist told me that my hair loss was far too extensive to be caused by an endocrine disorder. The results of the biopsy didn't indicate much of anything. It's not a fungus, stress, hormones, or a vitamin deficiency. It's not genetic. The only thing left is an autoimmune disorder, which would mean that I'm essentially allergic to my own hair. I already have Hashimoto's thyroiditis, which is an autoimmune disorder, and autoimmune disorders tend to flock together. Unfortunately, though, my pattern of hair loss looks nothing like any known autoimmune disorder. I was "diagnosed" with Alopecia NOS, which means "Not Otherwise Specified" which means no one has any idea what the hell is wrong with me. I had the biopsy because two different endocrinologists told me that my hair loss pattern resembled alopecia areata. I'm not a religious person, but I prayed my biopsy results would in fact reveal alopecia areata. Alopecians are like a family. They have support groups and conventions. I'd love more than anything to meet someone else who has gone through what I have in the way that I have. I still haven't found my family. I go to message boards for women with hair loss, and it seems that almost half of the women are 50+ years old with mild thinning, and almost all the rest are completely delusional 20-year-olds with no hair loss at all. I have found some people like me, though, which is a relief. My biopsy also argued against androgenic alopecia, which I was previously told I had. Androgenic alopecia typically happens to peri-menopausal women, not 10-year-old girls. I've read a lot about androgenic alopecia, and most of the time the literature will entail a statement like "androgenic alopecia can affect women as young as 30 years old." Where does that leave me? I turn 30 in five months, and I've been dealing with this about 19 years.

My hair loss started when I was 10, but most of my hair grew back once I started taking thyroid medication. I'm actually quite horrified to see pictures of myself from 2004. My hair really wasn't that bad, and I can't believe it went so far downhill in such a short time.

Shaving it was a relief and surprisingly liberating. A few weeks ago, I found myself staring at my bald spots in the mirror. I'd lift up the back of my hair and examine the little spots and streaks. I have pictures of my bald spots, but I'm not quite courageous enough to post those here. I don't want to wear my wigs anymore. I'm tired of it.

I had nightmares for years. In all of my nightmares, my dream would be progressing normally, then at some point I would realize that I wasn't wearing a wig and had no head covering. It was the alopecian version of the stereotypical "doing a class presentation in your underwear" dream. I realized recently, though, that I wasn't afraid of being bald. I was afraid of people knowing that I'm going bald. Somehow, that realization triggered something in me. I (almost) don't care anymore.

I don't have to shave my legs because most of my leg hair is gone. I'm losing my eyebrows as well. I'm actually okay and calm about this, and I'm getting stronger every day. Part of me wants to go to the alopecia areata convention this summer in Louisville, Kentucky. Just to connect. I don't have a diagnosis, so I'm still an outsider, but I do know the pain of losing hair randomly.

I've never wished for cancer, but I've often wished that I would have lost all of my hair. First of all, if I lost all of my hair, my parents or other adults would have recognized it as a real condition and I would have gotten to go to a doctor. Secondly, if I'd lost all of my hair, I'm sure someone (an adult or another child) would have stood up for me when I got bullied. Third, now that I'm shaving my head again, it would be nice to not have that extra hair to deal with.

There are many beautiful, strong wonderful people with alopecia. This video of a beautiful young girl almost makes me cry every time, despite the Kelly Clarkson soundtrack. The girl has less hair than I did, and she's gorgeous and she's smiling. I hope one day, that I can have her confidence. Until then...


---Zoe Doom

Sunday, April 6, 2008

And this is why I hate answering my door...

I live in a weird neighborhood. Not weird-good, but not necessarily weird-bad, either. Just weird. No one ever knows what I'm talking about when I try to tell people where I live. It's the land that Seattle forgot. It's not West Seattle, it's not South Park, it's not SeaTac, it's not Burien, it's not even White Center, really. It's Top Hat. Yes, Top Hat. It's far away from everywhere I want to go, it's close to some rather sketchy parts of town, but my rent is really cheap so I stick around. Some people make fun of me for living where I do, but hey, at least I don't live in Kent.

I went out with a friend last night and returned home a little after 1:00 in the morning. I was still awake and alert, and thought I would wind down by watching The Office on DVD. At approximately 2 a.m. I was halfway through the Season 2 finale when I heard some screaming and a loud, deep, booming voice yell "Get on the ground, now! On your knees!" So, I paused my DVD and went to my living room window. I peeked outside and there were flashing police lights everywhere, and I could see two police officers with their guns drawn. I heard a guy yelling "I'm down, I'm down!" or something to that effect, but I couldn't really see him. There are many trees behind my apartment, and I couldn't see the street too clearly. I could also hear a woman crying. The yelling continued for quite some time, and I eventually saw the cops drag a man in a white t-shirt and jeans toward the cop car. I couldn't get a look at the man; I couldn't even tell what ethnicity he was. He and the crying woman were yelling to each other, though the man did most of the yelling. "I loooooooove you! I love you, baby! You're my heart, my HEART!" He also started crying for his mother. I don't think his mother was there, but he started yelling "Mama, I love you! Help me, Mama!"

The police put the man into one of the squad cars, and began to question the woman. I'm not sure what came of that. I only heard more crying. The cop cars were still around when I went to sleep around 3:00.

This morning I looked at the news online to figure out what had gone on. Apparently, the guy who was crying for his mother had shot a 78-year-old man for not letting him inside his house to use the phone. Some reports say that although the victim did not know the shooter, he had seen him around the neighborhood before. I wonder if I'd recognize him. He had apparently attended an "alcohol and marijuana party" prior to the shooting. I've been to many parties in my life, and many of them were "alcohol and marijuana parties," but I don't recall people getting shot afterwards. Weird.

There are a lot of wannabe gangster types in my neighborhood, but they generally don't bother anyone. The shooter hid his gun in the bushes about 20 feet from my window, which is why a lot of this transpired right outside my living room. The victim is expected to make a full recovery, which is great. I can't imagine how horrible it would be to die because a stranger shot you after you didn't let him into your home in the middle of the night.

---Zoe Doom

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Best Hockey Names

10. Jonathan Cheechoo
San Jose Sharks

9. Adam Foote
Colorado Avalanche

8. Chris Pronger
Anaheim Ducks (His name creeps me out. Shudder.)

7. Jari Kurri
Retired (I just love that name.)

6. Keith Primeau
Retired (His brother Wayne Primeau plays for the Calgary Flames. With a name like that, they have to be good!)

5. Donald Brashear
Washington Capitals (Perhaps best known for his run-in with #3 and for calling the game "gay". Totally fitting name, kind of like his friend #3.)

4. Miroslav Satan
New York Islanders (It's pronounced "shuh-TAN" but it's still funny.)

3. Marty McSorley
Retired (His name sounds like surly, and he certainly is.)

2. Theoren Fleury
Retired (I thought his name was especially perfect when he was playing with the Calgary Flames.)

1. Martin Lapointe
Ottawa Senators

Love, Tegan Jovanka

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Why are people so weird?

DO NOT accidentally leave the blogspot out when typing the address of this blog in your browser. Why is everything on the internet porn? How could there be so much demand for fake boobs? Who are these people who cannot get enough of it? I think there needs to be more anti-porn propaganda on the internet to balance it out. (Ha, it would take A LOT of anti-activity to get even a modicum of balance.) Well, I know it’s not much, but here's my 2 cents-

I hate porn. I think it's degrading. I am an anti-porn feminist. I'm not even a sex positive feminist. HA! Take that, perverts and sexy feminists! That’s right; I think people who spend hours trolling for naughtiness on the internet are pathetic losers. I’m not hip to the apologists. I refuse to toe the line and say, "I'm a feminist but I loooove sex and dressing up in slutty outfits and talking in a baby voice so I don't threaten the masculinity of all those manly sensitive men out there. Oh, do me with your enlightened johnson! Please don't call me an angry lesbian because rape fantasy doesn't turn me on. Don’t think I’m humorless because sexualizing young girls disturbs me. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable by mentioning how easy it is to use the internet for child exploitation. Oh, oh!!"

Love ya, big boy,
~Tegan Jovanka

P.S. This is not an April Fools joke :)