So, I've decided that this piano thing is going to work out. Tomorrow we'll get the new ac adapter and everything will be fine. Or I'll take the piano back where I got it and find another one. Because seriously, this electric piano thing was meant to be.

In Other News: I complain to everyone within earshot about how my evil landlord won't let us have a dog. After I asked nicely and offered to pay a large pet deposit. Even though the crazy druggie neighbors had a HUGE one that barked all the time in their apartment across the way, which they made no pretense of hiding, such that I simply ASSUMED when we moved in that dogs were allowed. And those crazy bastards never got into any trouble even though they only occasionally paid rent!!!

*whew*

I just had to get that out of my system. Anyway.

Something about our house just cries out for more animals. I think it's my psychosis. I miss Tallulah... I love my rats to death, but I don't let them play outside anymore because they eat the Theory. I take good care of them, they have plenty of room, their cages are always clean, and I make their food myself (someday I'll share my secret E's MightyRat Mix recipe). But they just aren't animals that you can really play with. I've taken them to the park several times and all they wanted to do was hide in my shoes. To be honest, I mostly like to watch them. They're interesting little creatures.

Vitas...ah, Vitas is very interactive. But she mostly wants to lie on you. And stick her head under your hand while you're trying to type. Thanks, Vitas. Now cut it out.

The thing is, I've always been fairly obsessed with animals, although up until recently I've never had to take care of my own. Thanks, Ma. I thought that perhaps when I was older and fully responsible for all the little buggers living under my own roof, I would get less of a kick out of my pets. I thought that all the work of caring for small creatures would cure me of desire to be surrounded by them. But apparently I am nuts. The thing is, I clean the rat cages once every week/two weeks, I feed and water the cat and the rats, I scoop Vitas' litterbox...there just isn't that much going on here, you know? I go to school, I go to work, I come home, I study. I'm no Erin or Ashley here guys, I've got free time. Although almost certainly not enough free time for a dog. Hence my extreme hesitation to get one. I would hate more than anything to have to re-home a puppy that I wasn't able to train properly or enjoy. Perhaps that's why I actually asked my landlord if we could get one...because I'm a little unsure. Perhaps I secretly wanted him to tell me no, so that I wouldn't have to feel guilty later when my experiment in childrearing inevitably failed (wrong place, wrong time in our lives, wrong decision). But I digress.

I have this friend at work, who, sympathetic to my dog problem, recently offered for W and I to come and live in her basement. She has a very nice dog of her own, in a fairly run-down but charming house with a fenced backyard, and we'd only be paying $250 a month. Not $250 each, either--$250 for the both of us. So that's a tempting offer. Tonight I went to visit the house, and saw the basement for the first time.

It's totally livable, I was thinking! This is great! I'll get a dog, I'll save money on rent! I'll be living closer to my job! I'll have at least one (possibly 3) cool roommates! I won't be on a lease, so there will be less Oppressive Weight Of Responsibility!

Thus, in this state of buoyant optimism, I returned to my beloved and told him to pack his shit.

And he was like, WHAT.

Wait. What?

It went something like this...

E: Okay, so, we'll save money! On rent!
W: Wait. It's in the basement?
E: Yeah! It's cozy. It has a fireplace.
W: Does the fireplace work? Is the room large?
E: No! And no! As a matter of fact, there isn't really central heating. It's a fixer-uper!
W: What.
E: So there is this tiny problem with the floor!
W: With the...floor?
E: Yeah, but we could totally handle it. And we'll have to do something about a door.
W: There isn't any door?
E: Well, that part of the basement was originally designed to be a living room.
W: There's no DOOR? We'd have to install a door? Is there a door frame?
E: I think so, I didn't really look.
W: Well...how many people live there?
E: Umm...lets see...4? It's a two-bedroom. We'd have the basement, my friend and her friend live upstairs, and some other guy sleeps in the laundry room.
W: I see.
E: Which means that we'll have free laundry! Super convenient!
W: Will we have our own bathroom?
E: Sorta! We'll share the one downstairs with the laundry room guy.

At this point he began to get kind of irritated. Which was sad, because it's always such a TOTALLY BRILLIANT PLAN until W gets irritated and starts popping my bubbles all over the place. He took me firmly by the shoulders, and looked deep into my eyes.

"Emily" he said. "Don't you remember Taylor?"

"Yes" I replied, stung. We don't mention Taylor in our house. That was a very painful time for me.

"That was a very painful time for you, wasn't it sweetie?" W continued, oozing reasonable concern.

"Yeah" I sniffed.

He hugged me. "Because you had to share your space, right? Remember how much you hate sharing? Like, how you call the room we sleep in your room?"

I started to get a rather uncomfortable feeling.

"And you won't let me pour sugar in my own tea because you think I'll make a mess in the kitchen?" He continued. I began to clench my jaw. "And remember...sweetie, do you remember when you had to share your computer with Taylor?"

"GRRRrrrrr...I HATE TAYLOR!" I grabbed the purple throw pillow and ripped it to shreds with my teeth. "GRR! GRR!"

"Ooookay sweetie" W gently rescued the remains of the pillow. It had been called Le Fluffalus. Rest in peace. "Now, you see, Taylor was what we call a roommate. If we move into your friend's basement, not only will we be living in squalor, but we will have at least 3 roommates all at once. Think about how that will make you feel."

I eyed the remains of Le Fluffalus.

"Okay," I conceded. "Maybe not. Maybe we should...but we can't have a dog in this apartment. And we can't really afford to move into another apartment! And I..." Then it really hit me: The Pain.

"I really like this apartment!" I wailed. W patted my back. "I don't want to abandon all my stuff! I don't want to sacrifice central heating and doors!"

He rubbed my ears. I like to have my ears rubbed. He knows just how to do it...

And quite suddenly, I had the answer.

We will not move out of this apartment until we have really found a better one.

We will not get a dog until we can afford a home with a fenced in yard, all by ourselves. Not to own, mind you. We are renters--we rent.

So here's the plan: we're going to get a ferret.

I know, I know, we already have a bunch of rodents. But ferrets aren't actually rodents. They're somewhere between cats and dogs. And they're awfully fun, I had one as a kid. We have plenty of room in our apartment, plenty of time to spend. Ferrets are higher maintenance than cats, but less work than dogs. Our ferret can run around the apartment and come for rides in the car and walks. He can harass the cat (just like a real dog). He can use a litterbox and not get us evicted. We won't have to worry about finding another apartment that will allow us to have him, because we'll already by looking for apartment that allow cats and no one ever minds caged animals. Vladimir, Zizek, Seattle, and Norman can keep him company.

I have promised W.

We shall call him Archimedes.