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Blog entry cross posting:
Maybe I'm just inexperienced. Maybe mine are just cut a bit outside the cloth, but Blind Melon and Lynyrd Skynyrd are little weirdos. I am going by their given names here in the spirit of exasperated mothers everywhere.
It's all the little things they do, really. Take play time. I stay in the room with them for these and we have a blast, but if I move significantly, they assume I'm going to sneak out of the door without them and they can't have that. I'm immediately mobbed by darting carpet butts, with all of them swarming up my pants legs in a Lilliputian military attack. I know why Gulliver never stood a chance.
It's the nekkids that make the tactical difference. They don't climb. Instead, they pin my feet to the floor. Melon takes my right, and Skinner takes my left. They plop their balls on my toes and grip my ankles with tiny determined death grips. They stare up at me in challenge. I can almost hear the chipmunk ranged voices declaring, "None shall pass!"
So really, once I'm in the room, I'm in for the duration.
Today during playtime, knowing I'll never leave the room, I stretched out on my back on the floor with a book. Melon climbed up my arm onto the book. He stared down at me with a screwed ear expression and then starts eating a page. I flipped the book down and deposited him on my belly and resumed reading. He ascends my arm once more and again starts scalloping the edges of my paperback. I flip him off again. This goes for about four or five rounds. I think I've won. He's just sitting on my chest staring at me...until he bridges my neck to my face, plops his glorious man bits onto my upper lip, and stretches up to resume nibbling. I'm telling you! The pure disrespect for his meal ticket! I raspberry his bazoombas, sending him launching off my face 20 feet--in retrospect not wise on my part given the new claw gash on my cheek--and finally am able to read my book in peace. Though when I glanced over to see what he's doing he has the absolute nerve to look offended.
So then Skinner ambles over to eat some mushed banana. The other rats eat normally. They take a globby mouthful between their teeth, then sit on their haunches, holding it in place while they slurp it up in stages, finishing up by licking their paws clean. Skinner? Nope. The little weirdo snatches up a glob, then holds his front paws out to either side, shaking them frantically anxious that he might possibly soil his 'ittle kid gloves with the nasty mooshy nanner. They never /touch/ the banana they just shake like a toddler who has had a spider land on her feet while he's working his mouth to tongue the wad into his pie hole as fast as he can. Weirdo.
I turn my back on his nonsense, and go back to reading my book, sprawling--more wisely I thought--on my belly. Directly all six rats decide the next topic of interest is the inside of my hoodie sweatshirt, and take turns crawling up the gaps at my waist to spelunk their way out of my opposite sleeve hole and back again. Again, this is not unusual. What becomes unusual is that the nekkids decide that roughhousing in the vicinity of my armpit is the coolest thing ever. Not only this, they squabble and ratball their way all the way through my shirt, squeaking and scrabbling like their butts are on fire. A sensation not unlike setting loose the Tasmanian Devil in my shirt. Eventually things calm down enough that my toes can un-curl and it's time to put my weirdo rats and their brothers back in their collective cage.
The final straw? I'm out to eat tonight and start noticing something pinching my bosom. I check my bra and find a half eaten lab block. Apparently nekkids like temperature controlled storage units.
Nekkid rats are the strangest peoples.
Maybe I'm just inexperienced. Maybe mine are just cut a bit outside the cloth, but Blind Melon and Lynyrd Skynyrd are little weirdos. I am going by their given names here in the spirit of exasperated mothers everywhere.
It's all the little things they do, really. Take play time. I stay in the room with them for these and we have a blast, but if I move significantly, they assume I'm going to sneak out of the door without them and they can't have that. I'm immediately mobbed by darting carpet butts, with all of them swarming up my pants legs in a Lilliputian military attack. I know why Gulliver never stood a chance.
It's the nekkids that make the tactical difference. They don't climb. Instead, they pin my feet to the floor. Melon takes my right, and Skinner takes my left. They plop their balls on my toes and grip my ankles with tiny determined death grips. They stare up at me in challenge. I can almost hear the chipmunk ranged voices declaring, "None shall pass!"
So really, once I'm in the room, I'm in for the duration.
Today during playtime, knowing I'll never leave the room, I stretched out on my back on the floor with a book. Melon climbed up my arm onto the book. He stared down at me with a screwed ear expression and then starts eating a page. I flipped the book down and deposited him on my belly and resumed reading. He ascends my arm once more and again starts scalloping the edges of my paperback. I flip him off again. This goes for about four or five rounds. I think I've won. He's just sitting on my chest staring at me...until he bridges my neck to my face, plops his glorious man bits onto my upper lip, and stretches up to resume nibbling. I'm telling you! The pure disrespect for his meal ticket! I raspberry his bazoombas, sending him launching off my face 20 feet--in retrospect not wise on my part given the new claw gash on my cheek--and finally am able to read my book in peace. Though when I glanced over to see what he's doing he has the absolute nerve to look offended.
So then Skinner ambles over to eat some mushed banana. The other rats eat normally. They take a globby mouthful between their teeth, then sit on their haunches, holding it in place while they slurp it up in stages, finishing up by licking their paws clean. Skinner? Nope. The little weirdo snatches up a glob, then holds his front paws out to either side, shaking them frantically anxious that he might possibly soil his 'ittle kid gloves with the nasty mooshy nanner. They never /touch/ the banana they just shake like a toddler who has had a spider land on her feet while he's working his mouth to tongue the wad into his pie hole as fast as he can. Weirdo.
I turn my back on his nonsense, and go back to reading my book, sprawling--more wisely I thought--on my belly. Directly all six rats decide the next topic of interest is the inside of my hoodie sweatshirt, and take turns crawling up the gaps at my waist to spelunk their way out of my opposite sleeve hole and back again. Again, this is not unusual. What becomes unusual is that the nekkids decide that roughhousing in the vicinity of my armpit is the coolest thing ever. Not only this, they squabble and ratball their way all the way through my shirt, squeaking and scrabbling like their butts are on fire. A sensation not unlike setting loose the Tasmanian Devil in my shirt. Eventually things calm down enough that my toes can un-curl and it's time to put my weirdo rats and their brothers back in their collective cage.
The final straw? I'm out to eat tonight and start noticing something pinching my bosom. I check my bra and find a half eaten lab block. Apparently nekkids like temperature controlled storage units.
Nekkid rats are the strangest peoples.
