posted by Brandy on Nov 26
For those of you who know me well, you know that my “true passion” is writing and that I aspire to be a famous writer someday in the likes of Erma Bombeck and Nora Ephron. I won my first writing competition when I was in the sixth grade, attending Butler Middle School, when I wrote a school play called, “The Nightmare of Ambrosia” and from there, my passion has only matured.
Recently, I entered a writing contest through Writer’s Digest. It was their 77th Annual Writing Competition, and I entered the “Memoirs/Personal Essay” category. In the entire competition, that included 10 categories, they had 17,056 entries, and within my category, I placed #11.
Needless to say, I am ecstatic and wanted to share my exciting news with all of you. Here is the link to the website showing my placement (look for # 11 – Brandy Snider, Sandy, Utah) and in December, my name will be printed in the Writer’s Digest publication.
http://www.writersdigest.com/article/annualwinners77_essay
Listed below is my story that placed. Enjoy!!!
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“Why You Should NEVER Volunteer to Baby-Sit The “Class Pet” During Winter Break”
My five-year old son, Phoenix, goes to Waterford, a very prestigious private school. In fact, we love this school SO FUCKING MUCH, that he was actually put on the admissions “WAITING LIST”, while still in utero. In fact, I am pretty sure that my husband and I signed the enrollment application just moments after ejaculation. Now that he is in his second year of pre-school here, we really wanted to focus our attention (as Parents…and poor ones at that…) on promoting a positive self-esteem and enormous self-respect. So, with this said, when all of the parents were surveyed as to who would baby-sit Oreo, the black and white, class pet Guinea Pig, during the two week winter break, we enthusiastically volunteered, as we felt this would get us ON THE FAST TRACK to an elevated self-esteem for our five-year old son. And one for which would also make us feel better about the whole “bad parent” thing.
So, winter break began with me meeting my son at Waterford and helping the teachers load Oreo, the cage, the food, bedding and an assortment of rodent snacks into the back of my small SUV. I then buckled my son up in his car seat and OFF WE WENT!!! We drove home, all the while listening to Oreo squeak from the back of the cargo area due to his fear of abrupt environmental change and the fact that he now senses that he is, “Not in Kansas anymore.” My husband insists that the guinea pig (a grotesquely deformed rat) was squeaking in fear of rapid acceleration to 90 in 6 seconds and immediately slamming on the brakes after realizing I was still in the school parking lot. Damn lunchtime margaritas…
We get the pig home (Oreo…not my son), unpacked and settled and planted on the floor in the dining room, so he can always be part of the “action”. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Now, let’s take a moment to reminisce about the past and think of the time when our son asked for a ‘pet’ and my husband and I agreed to get him a Rat (a real one this time)…one who he so lovingly named, “Cutie Boy.” Well, to make a long story short, “Cutie Boy” (amazingly) survived our house hold for nearly two months before he suddenly had his neck SNAPPED, internal organs crushed, bowels flushed and bladder evacuated due to a very, very, VERY loving Paris (our son’s younger sister, who is two years old) who felt that it was a great idea to always LOVE, CUDDLE, HUG, KISS and even LAY on top of any and all animals who come near her (including honest to god real, live rats, not those fucked up freaks of nature Guinea Pigs). We all know how that beautiful love affair came to an abrupt and shocking end.
For those of you who don’t…it didn’t end well for the rat. Thank god Paris barely remembers snuffing the rat but Phoenix will never forget…
So, as EVERY ONE deserves a second chance, Oreo was going to prove that our house hold could take care of small rodents (whether we agreed on this or not). We had him there three long, damn days, played with him often, fed him cereal, rat poison (he’s a guinea pig…what’s the worst that could happen), let him jaunt around the house with the cats (again…what’s the worst that could happen…cat’s love retarded rats?), and most importantly, showered him with love and affection. I felt that his ‘squeaks’ of joy (caution, trepidation, fear, submission, tomato, tomato, potato, potato…whatever) showed us how happy he was with our family, but later, to my dismay, learned that these were, most likely, squeaks of pain.
On the fourth day, as it was evident that my son’s self-esteem was blossoming in the fact that HE was taking care of the class pet and how extremely popular he was now going to become after Christmas vacation (actually, this part is true, he did become very popular after Christmas vacation), when everyone learned of his generosity in caring for the class pet, he uttered a disturbing yet, unsurprising question to me on this fourth night.
“Mom, why is Oreo laying on his side with his tongue sticking out and his eyes rolled back in his head?!” As a streak of SHOCK bolted through my body, I looked into Oreo’s cage and, with HORROR seeping out of my pours; I realized that the poor bastard might be dead! Just to make sure the rat was deceased; my very idiotic, methodical husband kicked the cage multiple times like a Neanderthal to see if the freak pig would move…and it didn’t. I calmly told Phoenix that I think he is okay and asked him to please go start cleaning up his room. As I quickly glanced over to my husband and watched him staring confused at the rat, kicking the cage to see if the rat moved, (you gotta love the man, he doesn’t quit), I gently pulled Oreo out of the cage. In holding his limp, yet still warm body in my hands, I suddenly felt a heart beat!
It was at this very moment that I completely FUCKING LOST IT! In terror, much like that of which I felt the very first time I watched The Exorcist, I gazed at my husband and screamed, “He’s alive!!’ (Yes, for those of you movie fans, I completely resembled a crazed Gene Wilder in the infamous scene when he brings the Monster alive in “Young Frankenstein.”) My husband froze and I ranted that I need to get this little fucker to the vet immediately before he dies. Dave said GO! and in all of the chaos and blur, Phoenix staggered out of his bedroom and witnessed Mommy throwing on her shoes, beginning to cry, and running out of the front door with, what appeared to be a very relaxed, Oreo in tow!!!!!
I clambered into the car, shoved it in gear and drove for what I felt was like 90 mph, to the after hours veterinary animal hospital. All the while, I am petting; stroking and pleading with this little rat-fuck Guinea Pig that HE CANNOT DIE and that he CANNOT DO THIS TO ME!!! I love animals (even though I just referred to him as a little rat-fuck) I absolutely love ANY AND ALL animals, even more so then I do most people (yes, that includes those of you reading this right now, sorry, but you are not nearly as cute as a freakish rat with a big ass and no tail)!! So I did NOT want him to die. Especially for two main reasons:
§ I love animals and never want to see any of them suffer or die, EVER!!!!
§ My son’s self esteem. Yes, I think we may have a problem here and if you think that KILLING the fucking class pet is going to help him win popularity points or confidence, you may want to rethink this!
So, just as I arrive at the animal hospital and pull into the emergency parking spot, I hear a guttural squeak, feel a deep breath and then watch as Oreo’s lifeless body melts into my lap. NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! I dart into the vet clinic, crying hysterically as two technicians run to help. I explain how I believe that my Guinea Pig as just died and they frantically retrieve their stethoscopes, listen for a heartbeat and then confirm my gravest of suspicions. He is gone. (Dammit, I knew that stopping for that goddamn Starbucks Venti White Mocha was a mistake!) I pack up my furry little friend in a blankie and box that the animal clinic provided and I wipe away the tears and calmly say, “Thank You” to the technicians. I load the Oreo up in the car and proceed to drive home, all the while trying to imagine what in the hell I am going to tell my five-year old son, not to mention, what I am going to tell his teachers, who so trustingly let me take care of this “rat pig” during winter break.
I arrive home; explain to my son that Oreo was very sick AND very old and that he passed away very peacefully (in my lap as I was paying for the Venti White Mocha with an overdrawn credit card).
Everything was all fine and done, until the day my son returned to school. It was that night that I had several phone calls, from excessively concerned parents, asking what happened to Oreo. Damn, good news travels fast. “Hey everyone….I killed the class pet while chugging a triple Venti White Mocha!”, travels even faster, I learned!
I explained that the pig was old and he went peacefully in my lap; on the way to the doctor’s office (a.k.a., Starbucks)… I guess Oreo’s tragic death was the TALK OF THE CLASS that day when all of the other children inquired as to where Oreo was? My poor son, whose self-esteem was shattered as each child questioned, “YOU KILLED OREO?”
Lovely, I now have him signed up for weekly sessions with a child therapist to see how we can reverse this emotional damage. I’m also seeing my own therapist to determine the source of my new found fear of confection coffee drinks sold by the gallon…
