I'm Rabbit Sitting This Weekend


Make sure you pet Coolie on the head a lot. HARD! He likes it rough. And talk to him.

The most important thing: if people are over and hanging out for a while, you need to let him run around or he will be miserable. Bunnies are very social creatures and need to feel included so that they don’t become depressed. When you leave, you HAVE to catch him and put him back in his cage. He cannot be left unsupervised or he will eat lead paint and die. When he is out, be sure to keep the door open so he can get back into his cage if he wants to or needs his litter box.

When he is out of his cage: THE BATHROOM DOOR MUST REMAIN CLOSED AND THE KITCHEN GATE MUST BE PUT ACROSS THE GAP. He CANNOT go into the bathroom or kitchen because he will go into my closet and eat my dresses and/or go into the kitchen and eat the electric and/or gas cords and die/ possibly blow up the building. You should keep the bathroom door closed at all times and the gate up as well just so you don’t forget. This is VERY important.

Food: there is food in the plastic bin next to his cage. Just make sure there is always food in his dish.

Water: change his water as much as possible with cold water from the tap. When you arrive change his water, when you leave, change his water. He needs to drink a lot and likes clean water because he is a prissy bitch. If you show up after he has had a temper tantrum and he has thrown his toys in the water, take them out and give him fresh water. If he has put newspaper, food, poop, etc in his water dish b/c he is a brat, flush the stuff down the toilet and give him fresh water. He does need his water changed 1x/day minimum.

Litter box: once a day just throw a handful of clean shavings (in the plastic bin next to his cage) over the poopy ones. This way the apt won’t smell and neither will he.

Newspapers: if he pees or poops on his newspapers, just lay clean ones over the dirty ones (in the plastic bin next to his cage). This way the apt won’t smell and neither will he. Be sure not to cover his toys with the news papers when you do so.

Hay: if you feel so inclined, throw a little handful of clean hay (in the plastic bin next to his cage) into his litter box. He likes to eat it while he poops.

If you have ANY questions or concerns, please do not hesitate to call me at any time of the day or night (I will be awake and probably doing something ridiculous).

Feel free to eat, drink, smoke, etc anything you find in the apt and I will buy some beers for you tonight and leave them in the fridge. If you have a party, send me pics so I don’t feel left out.

Shanks and Alex, make sure Kelly doesn’t get too drunk and forget to take care of Coolie. If he dies, I will never let you forgive yourselves.

If I die in Vegas please make sure Coolie gets safely to my mother. Her name is Kathy and she may be reached at 555-555-5555 (EDITOR'S NOTE: I always wanted to do this to a real phone number like they do on TV or in The Babysitter's Club books.)

Thanks, Muffin! You are the best.



P.S. I’ve copied my brother and sister on this email as witnesses to your responsibilities.


Probably the funniest email I've ever received. Erica is my work BFF and if I kill the only child God/nature would ever give her, I'm going to:

A) Probably get fired
B) Have to put together a rabbit funeral
C) Be around when she cries, which is just awkward.

Wish me luck.



Editor's Note: You've seen my brain fueled by M&M's and Diet Coke, but have you ever seen my brain fueled by exercise? This, dear friends, is my brain on NATURAL endorphins.

6:30: I leave the office, a vicious war wagering in my brain. The bad side of my brain says: "Go home, little one. You've had a long* day and you only ate two slices of pizza for lunch. You don't need to work out." The good side of my brain says: "You are such a fatass. Think of all the ziti you ate last night! Not to mention the bagel, the bread and the brownies. AND YOU DRANK WHOLE MILK, YOU DISGUSTING SWINE."

7:00: After much deliberating, I reluctantly walk into my new gym, the Chinatown YMCA. The smell of gym mats and healthy people make me sick to my stomach, but I soldier on. I enter the locker room, only to be flashed by half a dozen Asian grandmothers. Looking good, ladies. Loo-ooking good.

7:10: I force myself into my too small Nike one piece bathing suit that I bought during my brief stint as YMCA coach during freshman year of college. I must have gotten taller, right? That's why this doesn't fit, RIGHT?

7:12: I fumble around the locker room, trying to find the showers. I walk in on a mother and a daughter who both yell at me and act like I'm a pedophile. GOD, I'M SUCH A ROOKIE.

7:14: I "shower". By shower, I mean I unsuccessfully attempt to put on hot water and screech as I get blasted by a stream of ice cold "peasant" water.

7:17: One last look in the locker room mirror confirms that I do in fact look like Michael Phelps with boobs and a gut...and less defined biceps.

7:18: I grab my hand towel and head to the pool, where I pull out half my hair in an attempt to get my bathing cap on. I then nearly break my brand new goggles and slip in the hallway connecting the locker room and pool.

7:20: I make it to the pool deck, where I see that a group of beautiful Australian swimmers are stretching before diving into the "fast lane". They call each other "mate" and ooze sex appeal. I pass them on the way to the loser lane, sucking in my stomach so hard that I hear my ribs crack. Self-loathing reaches an all time high.

7:22: I stick my feet into the slow lane, still out of breath from sucking (in my stomach. and at life). Three arthritic grandmothers are practicing their backstroke and judge me as I dive under the water and immediately get my few remaining strands of hair caught in the duct.

7:22:30: Screeching for the second of many times that evening, I pull my hair free. Most of my fellow swimmers are staring at me. Tears streaming down my face, I duck back under and focus on finding my inner Nemo.

7:23: I make it a few strokes before coming up for air. The AARP have swam past me, laughing at me as I choke on the chlorinated water.

7:33: After several*** vigorous laps, I look eagerly up at the clock, thinking that at least an hour has passed. Sadly, it has only been ten minutes.

7:45: I swim back and forth with the energy and stamina of my fellow lanies (I hope by making up nicknames, they will accept me as their own. I really want to learn bridge.)

7:50: Deciding that I've had enough of this exercise crap for one day, I emerge from the pool, hoisting myself up like a goddess. People stare as I exit the pool, obviously taking in my exquisite form and exceptional looks.

7:52: I enter the locker room and shriek at my reflection in the mirror. Apparently I was not wearing waterproof mascara and I resemble a drowned raccoon.

7:54: Defeated by my post-swim ugliness, I shower quickly, accidentally soaking my bag and jeans. Note to future self: the bench outside the shower is not protected from the stream.

8: I leave the gym, uglified but feeling oddly successful and pleased with myself.

8:20: I eat ziti and the icing from a stale black and white cookie. Gym again tomorrow, I swear.

*= Lie.
**= One


You know you're a mess when...

1) You confuse leggings for pants.

2) You wear last season's black boots and forget that they had holes in them. On the one day it rains in weeks.

3) You attempt to get up to go to the gym in the morning, but in a half stupor/sleep, you shut off the alarm and wake up at 8:47.

4) Your new coworker asks if you have cats. In complete seriousness.

5) You wear your new black leather jacket outside in the rain, without an umbrella, and ruin it.

6) You eat a mini 3 Muskeeteers bar for lunch and call it a diet.

7) Your paycheck fails to deposit itself and you overdraft because you spend 10 dollars on dinner.

8) Your immune system is so low that you get the flu shot and immediately get a version of the flu that you name Flu Jr.



My First Night With My Breathalyzer

Recently I overpaid in the good name of charity for my very own breathalyzer.

I've been wanting one of these for quite some time.

I always say "Wow, I got so drunk last night!" but I'd actually like to document how drunk I really was. Because let's face it, I overexaggerate.

So the other day my new baby breathalyzer arrived in the mail. I had it delivered to work because I was homeless when I bought it (but now I have a sweet apartment I can't afford!).

I then had the brilliant idea that I would use said breathalyzer to document how drunk I get and maybe even make a chart to show the rise and fall of my BAL (and dignity). The chart idea quickly went out the window due to laziness, but I digress.

So last night I decided to christen my baby breathalyzer at a douchebar (douchebar = a phrase I coined that means a bar in which douchey people play beer pong and quote Anchorman) in my new neighborhood with Declan and Meghan. I ripped the molded plastic open and much to my surprise, the damn thing needed batteries! I thought it just ran on the stanky breath of alcoholics and celebrities.

"Blurgh!", I exclaimed, to the chagrin of Meghan, who vehemently opposes my use of Tina Fey's catchphrase. I guess she doesn't know that my plan is to keep saying it until I run into Tina on the street and she overhears me and makes me assistant writer on 30 Rock. IT COULD HAPPEN.

Dead breathalyzer aside, I decided to just get really drunk and guess my BAL decimal. Just like math class!

So here we go:

.00: I arrive at the bar and chat pleasantly with my friends. I do not overuse the word Blurgh and I do not spill my drinks on anyone. I do, however, complain about being hungry at least four times.

.03: We left aforementioned douchebar and walk outside, only to run into Ross, who was on his way to meet me. I was unaware he was coming, due to a communication misfire, which made me realize that I was at .03.

.05: We decide to go to another, less douchey bar, to drink pitchers of beer. I order my favorite food in the world, chicken fingers with buffalo sauce and blue cheese.

.07: My food comes and I complain bitterly that the chicken is NOT fried! WTF?!

.08: Ross says "Wow, I think you're drunk. Your words are slurred." I respond: "Whart are you teaklkidndgsad about?

.10: That bastard Declan decides to buy us a round of tequila shots. I grapple with the decision of whether I should drink mine or not. Better judgment prevails.

.11: The gang raises their shots in celebration of the Yankee win (I think? I'm the only Yankee fan). I have a fit of genius and decide to fake drinking it but really, I dump the tequila on the floor.

.11 continued: Ross says "I think Kelly dumped her shot on the floor!" I lie, frantically, pretending he's a stupid hipster with great hair and a lying mouth.

.12: Meghan looks at me in disgust and then notices that I accidentally poured the tequila shot into her open bag. Screeching and smacking follow.

.13: I attempt to apologize but am laughing too hard. Instead I chug beer in an attempt to prove that I'm not a wussy.

.14: After realizing that I have work tomorrow, I lie and say that I have to leave because I have an early morning interview. This is laughable because a. I would never leave my job to interview elsewhere because I hate cover letters and sometimes my company gives us free booze and b. I don't have the authority to interview anyone! I barely have the authority to do expense reports!

.15: I stumble into my new apartment and find Jack, my amiable new roommate, attempting to configure our new wireless router. Memories are fuzzy but I'm pretty sure I'm going to be homeless again. In my drunken stupor, I remember that I need to breathalyze myself. I steal the batteries from the remote and blow a .15. After harassing Jack for a few more minutes, I stumble into bed and pass out.

.09: I wake again at 2 am and blow again. Still not okay to drive.