Name that Guinea Pig

On Friday the 13th, I turned 38. After attending parent-child class with Helen, I went home with her and baked cookies while Connor went over to a friend's house. According to Connor, he wanted to go to his friend's house because he hardly ever got to see him, but he got to see me all the time. Fair enough.

After getting Helen all sugared up with the cookie dough, I handed the reigns over to our au pair and headed out to a spa in St. Michaels with friends. Over the course of the weekend we would (1) eat at a fancy restaurant; (2) shop in the cute - chain store free town of St. Michaels; (3) enjoy the spa; (4) visit a saloon - twice (no townies were picked up, though one woman in our group got pretty close!); and (5) go sailing. Not a bad weekend, for sure.

And I needed it, because I had, in a moment of weakness, told Ed he could acquire guinea pigs for me from the kids as a birthday present.

And acquire them, he did.

Here's photographic proof.

 

When I was growing up, I always had a dog. I always wondered how kids ended up with strange rodents for pets, and now I know the answer. Helen and Connor desperately want a pet they can interact with, but I desperately don't want either a cat (I'm terrified of them) or a dog (too much care). So, that brought Ed and I to guinea pig.

But here's the best part of the story.

Connor named the guinea pig he picked out "Sparkle".

Helen named the guinea pig she picked out "Pussy".

Which makes me the owner of guinea pigs named "Sparkle Pussy". I'll let that sink in a minute.

Helen is too stubborn to just accept a name change, so I'm trying to call the guinea pig by another name, hoping it sticks.

Because really, I don't need anything in my life named Sparkle Pussy.

Elaine