If You’re Thinking of Buying Fish, Go For the Ones In Little Stick Shapes Covered in Batter
FISHY! WHY ARE YOU SLEEPING!?
I am officially Darla from Finding Nemo.
Another fish died, the sailfin tang named Dead-Eye that was my second favorite (after Snowflake the baby eel). The poor little guy had actually been at Davy Jones’ locker door before, crashing a couple of times only to revive in a clean saltwater bath. But alas, he finally kicked it and it was probably a relief for him.
Unlike Darla, however, I was as tired of killing fish as they were of dying. It may seem ironic that a sushi loving family like ours can grieve over the fish we attempted to keep as pets, yet kept losing in distressingly regular intervals, but it’s true. This supposedly relaxing hobby that my husband forced upon me thoughtfully selected for us was exhausting and macabre and I didn’t know what to do.
Enter Joe the Fish Guy. This is an actual job description. Joe owns the shop where we kept purchasing our little victims, and for a fee (of course – it’s never a fish charity) he and his partner will come out and clean and test and tell you what you’re doing wrong. So we ponied up and begged them to come rescue the survivors.
Snowflake - the Snowflake Eel. Unoriginal but apt.
Well. As it turns out, I AM actually the one who killed the fish. Not a disease. Not some rare element in our water that fish are allergic to. Me. Not on purpose. But the people who brought the tank out (Different Fish Guys, who provided no advice of use and who’ve since mysteriously vanished off the face of the earth. Assholes.) left me some water conditioner stuff. It said it had vitamins. It said it was safe. It said it gave the fish a nice slimy coat which sounded disgusting to me, but which fish apparently covet like Prada. It said you could put it in whenever the fish seemed stressed. Hot damn! Our fish always seemed stressed so I would just add it every day. Sometimes twice a day. I mean, I measured it, I added the right dosage for our tank size and all. I just added A LOT of it. And then I overfed them. Because I felt bad that they kept dying. So they got extra snacks.
But the fish kept dying and being stressed. For those of you out there who are not Fish Guys or Serious Marine Aquarium Hobbyists Like Me (shut up), fish don’t actually ask for Excedrin or a huge glass of wine or suddenly start crying in the middle of Target to let you know they’re stressed. They gasp. They get infections. Then they die.
Joe told me I basically turned the water into a soap solution/jelly kind of thing. Hence the gasping, infections, and dying. So they never needed copper and I COULD HAVE SAVED THE GODDAMNED STARFISH and probably everyone else if I’d only known.
Greenjeans the Wrasse. Hey, NICE WRASSE!
Joe was actually very nice about the whole thing, though. He said it’s a common mistake for beginners to think they need lots of additives and to overdose their tanks and I said I’m sure that’s a huge comfort to the dead fish and he laughed. So Joe and Co. changed out a lot of the soap/jelly water and cleaned all the gunk and fish poop (does fish poop taste like fish, do you think? What? I’m just asking). Then he sternly told me not to put anything else in there but food – and no more extra cubes o’frozen shrimp because the survivors seemed sad and hungry. He finally warned that we still might lose one or two more while the tank turned to non-jelly and all the ammonia cycled out (I’ll spare you The Story of The Nitrogen Cycle In Marine Aquariums because unless you’re a fish, a Fish Guy, or me – who cares? You’re all welcome.)
We hoped for the best. I stopped adding chemicals willy-nilly and teaching my fish to be emotional eaters. It must have been a complete Darwinian experience, because all of the survivors are still alive and swimming to date. I’m telling you, after this baptism by fire, these fish must be almost indestructible by now. Survival of the fittest, baby.
Punky Bluester. One of the O-G's
Recently, Joe The Fish Guy came back. He was pleased with our progress and we were given permission to add a new member to our briny little family. We wanted to get another sailfin tang, but the ghost of old Dead-Eye must have been haunting me still, and there wasn’t a new victim sailfin tang available.
After much debate, I picked out an unusual, amusing little guy called the Panther Grouper. As they were bagging him up for us, Joe’s dad (a co-owner) said casually ”Oh hey – you know these guys get big, right?”
Me: “Like how big?”
Fish Dad: “Oh, ’bout 17 inches. Or so.”
Me: “How long does it take him to get that big?”
Fish Dad: “Several years, not to worry.”
Gunga Din. Later on, he'll take off fingers. For now, he's kind of cute.
So we took little Gunga Din home and I did a little research online. As it turns out, Panther Groupers are an incredibly hardy species (thank the Gods) but they actually get up to about 20+ inches, grow fast, eat anything that can fit in their mouths (like, oh, say, a Volkswagen), and require a 300 gallon tank at adult size. Plus they live like seventy years or something ridiculous. Assuming I don’t kill him off with kindness first.
Big Red. The Boss of You.
Damn it. I’m really stuck with this hobby now. Pretty soon we’ll just wall off a section of the house with sheets of 4-inch thick plexiglass to make our own ocean. At this point, though, Gunga is only about 4 inches long. He’s busy duking it out with Big Red, another Grouper, for Tank Sheriff, and swimming head down in a kind of Woodstock-of-the-Sea thing.
Poor Tomato. Mommy's sorry she killed your anemone friends.
The rest of the gang is adjusting, and Joe said I can even get another anemone for my poor Maroon Clown, Tomato, since I killed off his first two and he’s currently making do with a piece of bleached out coral that’s approximately the right size. He looks sad, though. I want to give him snacks, but I think Joe has a hidden camera installed on a hermit crab.
My second guest star on The Rant Boat (season 1 – DVD deal in the works) is none other than the lovely and talented MummaBoo, who blogs at MummaBoo X 2 and who is, despite her protestations to the contrary, a hilarious and talented writer. Please leave her a comment here, and then go check out her thoughts on things like super mutant sperm, AKA Sea Monkeys. Oh, she’s also super cool and she has two very cute kids. And she calls her hubby by the same nickname I do. I mean, she calls her husband that name, and I call my own husband that same name. Accidentally. I don’t call her husband by the nickname, people. It’s not like it sounds. Really! We’re close and all that, but I’m pretty sure she’d kick my ass if I started referring to her husband by a nickname. Just saying.
Anyway, without further ado, because she really needs no more introduction than the incoherent one I just provided, here’s MummaBoo in Playing With The Boys!
*Warning and disclaimer: DO NOT read this at work or if you’re eating or drinking. I’m serious. I laughed so hard I had a seizure. Kind of. It was a small seizure. I got better.
Not so very long ago, and not so very far away, Aunt Becky was ruminating on monikers for certain, ahem, body parts, and the garments with which they might be clothed. Alright, alright, she was wondering what other people called banana hammocks, ok? Never dreaming that my smart aleck comment to her query would take on a life of its own, I typed in “Scrote Tote” and clicked “publish”. Apparently, Coco was as amused at my little joke as I was (*ed. note – I was. It is GENIUS.) and followed me over to my blog. And then I followed her right back to hers. As they say, hilarity ensued, minds were met, and a friendship was born. What better topic for my portion of the Rant Cruise than the one that started it all? Without further ado (because there’s been so much ado already), I bring you the Scrote Tote commercial.
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Scene: Exterior – beach near sunset. A beach volleyball tournament is in full swing. Young hardbodies, male and female, in various beach garments are milling about, cheering on their favorite players, chugging sports drinks and scoping out possible partners for the post-tournament barbecue. The camera pans left and comes to rest on Deke, a twenty-something beach volleyball competitor who has been eliminated from the competition. He sits slightly apart from the crowd and it’s clear that he’s experiencing some discomfort. As we watch, he shifts his weight from side to side, while surreptitiously moving an icepack around his nether regions. A small groan escapes his lips as his partner from the tournament, Ace,walks up with a fresh icepack.
Deke: “Dude, I’m sorry about missing that last shot.”
Ace: “Dude, you should be sorry about your nads. They took a beating out there today.”
Deke: “Don’t I know it. Look at those guys. They’ve been at it all day, man. They must have nuts of steel.”
Ace: “Yeah, well, when you’ve got the right equipment, nothing can stop you.”
The camera pans right, toward the volleyball court, where we see the victorious team high-fiving each other as the game ends. As the crowd rushes to congratulate them, we hear the unmistakable voice of everyone’s favorite pitch-guy, Billy Mays, say:
“Guys, have you ever wondered how they do it? How they keep the manly jumble from bouncing around, or worse yet, getting flattened when diving for that save? What keeps the junk from becoming trash? I’ll tell you the secret. It’s not a cup. There’s no room for a cup in a Speedo! It’s not a banana hammock. Not even close. Swinging free only brings the pain. Just ask Deke over there. No, guys, what you want is the Scrote Tote. That’s right, you heard me, the Scrote Tote.
Stay secure in all your activities and give the boys room to breathe while wearing the all-new Scrote Tote! Made from a breathable lycra-cotton mesh, the Scrote Tote will give you the feeling of freedom and the comfort of knowing that your super-sac is super-secure. No more bouncing or bruising. Forget boxers, forget briefs! Forget the hammocks. The Scrote Tote is virtually invisible under a Speedo, or wear it alone! Comes in 4 fashion colors, or have it custom-made to match your pelt. Only $19.95, plus shipping & handling! But, wait! If you order in the next 10 minutes, we’ll send you a 2nd Scrote Tote absolutely free! That’s a $40 value for only $19.95! Call now! Don’t be a Deke! Order your Scrote Tote TODAY!”
End Billy Mays voiceover, begin “legal disclaimer” voiceover: “Customer must provide color sample for pelt-matching. The makers of Scrote Tote are not responsible for indecent exposure arrests that may result from wearing Scrote Tote alone. Scrote Tote cannot be returned if hygienic seal on package has been removed or tampered with.”
As the legal disclaimer continues, (shipping, handling, taxes, blah, blah, blah), we see the victorious team disengaging from the crowd. As they walk past Deke and Ace, they flash a grin and flip a Scrote Tote package in the air towards them. Deke catches it, looks at it, and gives a weak smile before raising his icepack in salute. Fade out.
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Coco and I are willing to meet with investors to get this product on the market. Any takers? *wink*
I can hardly believe people actually want to sail on The Rant Boat (my own personal take on The Love Boat) as my Special Guest Stars, mostly because unlike Aaron Spelling, I cannot offer them cash or even a reasonably decent shot at bigger roles down the road.
However, Shawna was my very first volunteer, and she has generously provided this rant about husbands, wives, gender disparity in parenting…oh, hell. Just read it. It’s funny and she’s right. Read on, please leave her a comment here, and then pay her a visit at her own blog, A Lil’ Bit Squishy, because she is freaking wonderful. So without further ado, here’s Shawna in Off The Pedestal!
I am one of the luckiest girls in the world. I have an amazing husband. Truly amazing. And this post is still going to trash him but what you first must understand is that it really has nothing to do with him and everything to do with our society. Everything.
I am sick of my husband’s pedestal. Sick to death of it. Tired of hearing how great he is and how lucky I am. But before I explain why, you, dear reader, need a little background information. My husband and I both work. He is working a full time day job. I am working a halftime shift job. Our children are not in daycare. We have a neighbour who occasionally helps us out on days when our schedules overlap or on the odd occasion when we would like to do something like buy Christmas presents or catch a movie without kids in tow. By occasionally, I mean for less than four hours twice a month. We’ve arranged our schedules so that we can raise our children. In my six week rotation we have two full days off together. But we have a lot of evenings together on the days when Steve works and I don’t so we have time together for us too.
By nature I am a night person, he a morning person. Throw in my shift work and breastfeeding babies that did not sleep through the night until after their first birthdays and I am not the most functional person first thing in the morning. At our house, I get the night shift, up with whichever child needs a parent, whenever they need a parent, except for the five nights in six weeks when I am at work. At our house, Steve prepares breakfast. Sometimes he cooks but mostly he just makes toast or pours cereal. It is his time with the kids and it is the time of day when I get the most solid sleep, knowing that I don’t have to listen, don’t have to be half awake just in case someone needs me.
I am responsible for lunch most days and dinner most days. Except when I am working the day shifts or when Steve and the kids have gone out of town. I work five day shifts in six weeks, so Steve is responsible for lunch and dinner about once a week.
I do all of the laundry, including ironing and starching his work clothes. I keep the house clean, wash tables, floors, dishes, vacuum, dust, etc. It all falls to me. Except the bathroom which has become a shared responsibility, just because I hate scrubbing tubs enough that I will sometimes ask him to do it, which he does willingly and lovingly.
We share care of washing and maintaining our vehicles and even gassing them up. Only one of our vehicles is big enough to fit all of our children and so we trade often. Whoever has the kids; has the van. Whoever has time to wash, washes. Whoever has the vehicle when it needs gas is responsible to make sure it happens.
Steve mows the lawn. Simply because I can’t do it. I have tried two times in my life and both times ended up not functional for the day following because of severe allergic reaction so I stay away from grass like a diabetic person should stay away from dessert or a hypertensive person should stay away from salt. Because I am responsible for my own well-being. Of course, he doesn’t mow it as often as I would like but because I can’t do it, I also feel like I can’t mention it.
I pay the bills. I register the kids for soccer and swimming and music classes. I am mostly responsible for helping with homework and piano practice. But Steve attends to those activities on the days when I am working and he’s always around to help bath, read stories and put the kids to bed.
I go to book club while he is home with the kids; he goes for beers with the guys when I am home with the kids. We’ve both gone to movies by ourselves. Both of us being comfortable in our own skin, we like this arrangement.
Sounds great right? And it is. It is one of the most functional relationships in the world and still a bit lopsided. Still more of the childrearing, booboo kissing, cleaning, organizing, photo taking, sideline cheering falls to me. So here is my complaint: I am tired of hearing how great my husband is. And tired of hearing how lucky I am. What about me, aren’t I great too? Isn’t he lucky too? What about our children? Aren’t they great too? Aren’t we lucky too? The thing is: it’s not about our family. We work hard. Together. To make things work so well, so smoothly. We (plural) are great. I am sad that the pedestal that people (my mom included) put my husband up on have done it because COMPARED TO OTHER MEN he is a rock star. How sad is that? How sad is it that it is acceptable for families to live any other way? That it is acceptable for a husband not to participate in childrearing, that it is acceptable for a wife not to learn how to turn a wrench?
It’s not to say that things should be equal. After all, no matter how hard a man tries, he’ll likely never breastfeed or child bear. And though we claim to have equality in North America it is still uncommon for a woman to consistently earn more money than a man. And if a family chooses to be in more traditional roles with the husband working, and the wife parenting, cooking, cleaning, shopping, then so be it, but don’t tell me how lucky I am. And don’t for a second suggest that I am shirking my responsibilities as a mother and a woman because my husband shares the childrearing and the cooking because I am working too. And because I have never claimed to be a super mom. I don’t want that title. Not now, not ever. I don’t want to give up the quality of life that we have AS A FAMILY for some ideal that our society is attempting to force on me. Unacceptable.
My husband is great. He is a great man, a great father and a great husband. But I am also a great woman, a great mother, and a great wife. Together with our children we are a great family. That’s how it works. That’s how it should work. Stop being surprised by it and stand up for it in your own lives!!
I’m not really a slacker. OK, yes, I am a procrastinator, but that’s not the same as trying to foist off my own work on somebody else. I mean, if someone else chooses to do the things I should be doing while I’m busy rearranging the dish towel drawer, that’s not the same as foisting.
Right?
Right.
The point of all that (and I know you’re all thinking the same thing, why not just make your point right away and spare us all your thoughts on foisting, but that’s just not my bag, man) was to say that I will be neglecting my blog further this week. First because I am dealing with the never-ending snarl of a minor level of hell that my life has become, and second because my family and I will be taking a much needed little vacation to go fishing in the wilds of some state fairly near here, sometime soon. Shut up. I can be outdoorsy. It just so happens I will be outdoorsy in a cabin with indoor plumbing, but other than that, I am practically going to be Jeremiah Johnson. Minus the, um, johnson.
However, I noticed that other, more clever and popular bloggers than myself often entice people to guest post for them while they neglect their own blogs attend to their clever, popular, and fabulous lives. Since it’s voluntary, I’m going to go ahead and say that asking for people to write on my blog is also not the same as foisting.
There you have it, Internet. My first ever call for Guest Stars, which will make my blog feel a lot like The Love Boat, and me into something like Julie the Cruise Director, no?
Drop me a comment or an e-mail before the end of the week if you’re interested. You can post about anything you like, whether dirty or clean, and be as long-winded or succinct as you like. Guest posts about drunken escapades involving you trying to cook flapjacks in the nude or amusing encounters with farm animals will be given priority. Just kidding. Cute kid stories and meaningful ponderings are always welcome, even though I always seem to end up kvetching here myself.
See you on the Lido deck later for cocktails!
I’ll probably kick myself for posting this and attracting karma’s sadistic attentions once again, but I am literally astounded at the difference that this new daycare has made for Bean, AKA The Wild Badger, or simply Badger, as he will henceforth be known on this blog. Which is sort of a weird play on Leave It To Beaver, if June drank a lot of wine and took out the recycling in a ragged nightgown and no bra and laughed really hard when Ward asked what was for dinner. Not that I ever do those things because I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, I ‘m A Woman, W-O-M-A-N. Or something.
Anyway.
Back to my point.
In two weeks, Badger Bean has:
1. Taken a nap every day. This is HUGE. He still needs naps, but short of hog-tying him, which is frowned upon, the old daycare pretty much gave up. Ms. C has him down and sleeping with everyone else. HUGE. I wanted to kiss her, but I thought she might not take it in the spirit of gratefulness and think I was just a weirdo.
2. Begun the day with a smile and greeted me with one at pickup. Seriously, he skips right past me with a cheery wave and a kiss, saying “Bye, Mommy!”
3. Started talking about “going to see Ms. C” and “going to school” when we are at home. Also huge. Disturbingly, I had started to hear him refer to himself as a “bad boy” in our last weeks at the other center. I do not think it was the teachers, but I do think the other child I mentioned before had started bullying him in earnest. I suspect but can’t prove that this was what pushed him over the edges of his tolerance and resulted in at least part of his own extreme behavior. (And before I get any hate mail from Perfect Parents Raising Perfect Children, please put down your Keyboards of Sanctimony. I do not and did not excuse Badger’s behavior – he was ALWAYS given consequences. Still, he was also a victim.)
4. Participated in activities in appropriate ways. Like has started painting figures instead of slopping paint around, does the lacing cards, and works quietly at his own table rather than bothering everyone else.
5. NOT BITTEN OR ATTACKED ONE PERSON. On Wednesday, I was greeted at the door with “We had a rough day” and I thought “Crap and double crap!”, but it turns out, the rough day involved merely being overly sensitive and a couple of meltdowns that he recovered quickly enough from once given a time-out. To contrast, this would constitute a great day at the old center (No physical attacks! Woo!). We put it down to being tired since he’d gone to sleep later than usual the prior night. It is so nice to be greeted with a positive report at the end of the day and not receive calls at work that I could weep with joy.
In addition, he has also begun using the potty regularly, including waking me last night to use the potty, talking more and using longer sentences, and generally acting happier and being a lot more pleasant to be around.
I know the testing phase is still to come, as it inevitably will, so I am holding on to the hope that Ms. C has made enough of an impression, and the environment is sufficiently mellow that he will work through it without completely losing it like he did before. The changes I’ve seen thus far, though, are pretty remarkable.
In the meantime, to everyone who urged me to look into home daycares, and I hedged? Thank you, and I’m sorry I ever doubted there were excellent caregivers out there who could give Badger what he needed.
Finally, to my little Badger, I am so sorry I waited until things were so miserably unbearable for you that you reacted in the only way you knew how to let us know. You just aren’t cut out for large group daycare, and I won’t ever force you to go to one again.
I have weird dreams. You guys knew that, right? Sometimes they’re based on something in my real life. Sometimes, and this is the more likely occurrence, they are driven by things like too many Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and that last glass of wine. Take my latest dreamland escapade, for example.
As a general rule, I’m not all that hot on Christian Bale, mostly because he seems like a dick who gets off on treating people he perceives as inferiors like crap. The original Terminator is one of my favorite kick-ass movies of all time, and so I was both happy and sad to see that Terminator: Salvation was coming out this summer. Happy because I liked the premise of the movie as a prequel to Terminator, and sad because it starred the aforementioned sullen and arrogant Mr. Bale.
As it turns out, reviews are mixed anyway, so I’ll probably just wait to catch the movie on DVD some night when the hubs is absorbed in a sporting event this fall. However, what my brain did absorb and process from my lazy movie research was one supporting role – Sam Worthington as the new Terminator. Who doesn’t know he’s a Terminator. See, even sporting makeup which makes it look like his head is half ground away to a shiny metal skull, Sam is H – O – T, hot. I mean, hot, hot, HOT. Hotter than Georgia asphalt in July. Africa hot. See where I’m going here? Hot. Yeah.
See? Hot. Very hot. Thank you, Google Images
Still, I was pretty into my Daniel Craig obsession right about now and I didn’t think much about Sam once I clicked away from IMDB.com beyond noting that he is, indeed, just that hot.
But my brain, she liked Sam very, very much. So much so that I spent several happy hours in REM sleep having all kinds of naughty done to my body by Sam, in the guise of his Terminator role, and let me just tell you that I think my version of the movie would have been better for everyone. Here’s a tip: I didn’t die, and only Sam had a plasma rifle (ahem), but I think I saw God. A god, anyway. Maybe not theGod. But someone in the hierarchy. Definitely.
You just never know where your next fun story idea will come from, and my latest comes from Cheetos and Terminator: Salvation. Hello, Adam, my super cyborg alpha male who looks suspiciously like Sam Worthington and who starts out very bad indeed. Only my heroine Emmy can possibly sway him to side of good. Or dismantle him with a torque wrench. It depends on if he behaves.
So, my little Internet, sorry I haven’t been blogging or commenting as much as I’d like, but I really AM working on finally finishing up something to try and submit for publication. I’ve also been stocking up on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and I highly recommend them to you, too.
Thursday, I researched home daycare centers and settled on a lady who has a small, neat, spotless preschool for a maximum of 6 kids at any given time. She’s been doing this since the early 80’s and most of the kids stay with her from age 2 until they leave for kindergarten.
At the interview, I wondered if she and Bean would mesh at all, because she was very big about the routine never being upset. This means no kids get dropped off after 9:30 AM, no one gets picked up during naptime, the kids must follow the routine exactly, etc. So Bean’s habit of remaining awake during naptime? Nixed. Bean choosing not to follow the daily schedule? Nixed.
Then I thought to myself what is the matter with you? This is exactly what he needs. Hello, a child who strenuously resists even the smallest change does not need one more person indulging his whims or giving in because it’s easier than fighting it out. He needs structure. He needs rules. He needs predictable days with a calming routine and consequences for not behaving, not “redirection”. He has issues with behavior, I warned. He’ll get two weeks to try it out here, Ms. C replied firmly, kind of scaring me, but she added kindly, I’m willing to bet he just needs some socialization skills and routine.
So I signed him up and wrote a check. At least, I thought pessimistically, I bought myself two weeks without having to leave work early 75% of the time.
I hate to sound the trumpets at this point, only 3 days in, but so far, so good. Bean has napped, actually sleeping, two days in a row, a feat which may entitle Ms. C to be canonized, if she can keep it up. She gives time-outs when he misbehaves, but he does not seem put off by her strictness at all, and in fact, happily skipped away from me right into the preschool room this morning without so much as a look backward.
While Bean is expected to behave and get along, Ms. C is by no means some kind of drill sergeant. She is willing to work with Bean while he adjusts, willing to make allowances for a learning curve, and called him a sweet little boy, which he is, when his teeth and/or claws are not attached to you. Bean is obviously taken with her, as he voluntarily wants to give her a kiss every morning, which is not something he is wont to do with new people unless he is utterly taken by them.
I have begun to hope that the small group and quiet home setting will make a difference for my wild child.
Now, because I have spent the last several posts wringing my hands over my son and everything else going on in my life, let me leave you with something cute:
Bean has recently learned how to “forgive” someone who hurts him accidentally. While we were playing over the weekend, I caught him with my thumbnail on the leg pretty good as I tickled him.
“I’m so sorry, baby!” I exclaimed, kissing the little red mark.
“Dat’s OK, Mommy! It was a askident.” He replied sweetly, patting my hand to assure me all was well.
So yes, we’re struggling, but something must be soaking in. And that cute little voice? Melts my heart every time.
And finally, in other interesting news:
Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig will be appearing on Broadway together. In a play about Chicago cops. Hello My Favorite Fantasy Come To Life…who’s up for a cultural expedition to the Big Apple? Show of hands?
Well, it’s official, though hardly shocking. Bean has been asked not to return to yet another daycare.
As I sit here with the scars from my child marring my own arms, I can’t blame the center. But we can’t hire a nanny right now, and the idea of drearily selecting another center with yet another round of new teachers and administrators and another merry go round from hell of waiting for the inevitable calls to begin asking us to come pick up Bean just makes me want to weep.
So the alternative is a home based center. I know there are some good ones, and I am planning to interview a few I’ve found.
The whole stupid ordeal just makes me so frustrated and unhappy and I want to scream that my kid is not some evil little brat, he can be sweet and loving and he loves little babies (no, not for lunch) and can somebody please just tell me how to help him? Yet at the same time, meanly and selfishly, I want to scream at my poor kid What is wrong with you? Why can’t you just act like a nice little boy? Why does everything have to be a damn fight with you? Which, of course, makes me feel about an inch tall and covered in shame. Because who thinks like that about their 3 year old?
I am failing at being a mom. Failing.
And this is only 3-1/2 years in. How in God’s name can I possibly deal with the school years, fraught with mean kids and weaker kids and kids who will push every little button my son has? Teenage rebellion? Peer pressure? I feel like the only light at the end of this tunnel is a runaway train.
I realize this blog has become a litany of miserable bitching, and for that I say thank you, for sticking with me thus far, and I’m sorry. Things have to hit rock bottom soon. I can’t even stand myself right now.
So the starfish died and I cried for an hour because the alternative was to hurl myself off an overpass.
Never tell yourself that things can’t get worse. You may think you’re simply being a glass-half-full kind of optimist, making the best of the hand you’re dealt, but what you’re really doing is tempting fate to kick some more sand in your face.
What’s on the hit parade for the week in review?
My husband called me one afternoon to ask “What’s the difference between a mouse and a rat?” It took me a moment to realize this wasn’t some new joke he’d found on the Intertubes and so I cautiously asked him why he wanted to know.
“There’s something dead in the pool,” he informed me, “I think it’s a rat, is that bad?”
“I’m guessing it’s bad for the rat,” I said, “I have to go.” I hung up wondering why we were discussing this at all. There’s a dead thing in the pool, but it’s not human. Remove dead animal and sterilize the water with a massive chlorine shock. CSI not required.
But no. I get home and my husband has left the rat in the pool and requires me to inspect it. Yep. It was a rat. Definitely dead. Why did I have to ID the corpse again? Then my hubs asks “Should I toss it over the wall?”
“Unless you want to give it a funeral.” I replied, to which he snarled something about sarcasm not becoming me, which is nonsense because sarcasm is the new black; ask Tim Gunn. Later he (my hub, not Tim Gunn) told me in an offended tone that he’d only wanted my opinion because we could be infested with rats, and rats carry the plague after all. I refrained from telling him that one rat, outside, in 9 years does not an infestation make, and that even if it did, how was I an expert on rats? Or the plague?
Bean seems to have channelled Hannibal Lecter 100% and is attacking children randomly twice or more a day. Last Wednesday, he graduated to teachers. We’re looking for a nanny (again), but how does one place the ad? “Wanted: Wild Badger Handler – must provide own body armor and tranqulizer darts”? Yeah – that’s going to sell for nine bucks an hour.
I’m on thin ice at work because I have to leave early so often I might as well be telecommuting except you can’t really telecommute for my job, which translates to you’re just leaving early 4 days a week, you lazy bitch. Thank God my boss is, like, the best ever, but still, there is only so much she can do to cover my butt before it’s just too much.
We thought Bean had a minor intestinal virus but it turned into a week-long festival of body fluids that I can’t even begin to describe because it just makes me want to sob in despair. I’ve done more laundry than a by-the-hour motel. There’s nothing like waking up at 3 AM several days in a row to a screaming child and putting your hand into a vile puddle of liquid poo to really drive home the point that this is the trenches of parenthood.
Adding to the toppings on my poop-flavored sundae, Teleflora didn’t deliver my mother’s flowers on Mother’s Day weekend, nor Monday as they’d promised, nor Wednesday or Thursday. When I called them to complain after several unanswered e-mails, not one but TWO apathetic “customer service” agents blew me off after Teleflora hosed up the order. Here’s the play by play from the “Operations Support” rep I talked to:
Me: “I have a problem with my order. You didn’t deliver it on 5/9 as promised and then it was never redelivered on 5/11. What’s going on?”
Customer Annoyance Agent : “OK, um, we just need a redelivery date.”
Me: “You already HAD a redelivery date. What happened?”
CAA: “Yes, we need another date.”
Me (voice rising slightly but still trying to be polite): “Why do you need another date? What happened on the 11th? My mom was home all day.”
CAA: “I don’t – it doesn’t say. The florist probably didn’t get their flowers in?”
Me: “Are you kidding me? Are you trying to tell me that your florist didn’t get FLOWERS in for MOTHER’S DAY ORDERS? And no one called me, or my mom, and now it is THURSDAY? Do you see that this is a huge customer service issue here?”
CAA: (silence)
Me: “No response to that?”
CAA (robotically): “It doesn’t say why they didn’t deliver. If you could just give us another date…”
Me: “And then what? I pick another date and hope your florist got some flowers and then have to do this all again? How are you going to correct this situation?”
CAA (determined to stick to the damned script on that screen no matter what): “Ma’am, I can enter another date for you now…”
Me (pissed for real now): “No. No, I think at this point I need you to cancel my order. This is too much work for me and I am extremely disappointed in Teleflora.”
CAA (obviously relieved that I picked an option on the drop down menu): “OK, I can cancel that order for you.” (never apologizes, never offers any resolution)
Me: “Can I get some kind of confirmation?”
CAA: “Oh, I can e-mail you confirming that we’ve done what you wanted.”
Me: “No, you didn’t do what I wanted, because that would involve delivering flowers.”
CAA: (awkward silence again)
Me (through gritted teeth): “Just send me the e-mail.”
CAA: “All right, I’ve e-mailed you cancelling that order. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
Me: “No, I think you’ve done more than enough.”
CAA (not picking up on the heavy sarcasm and happy to be back on script again): “Thank you for choosing Teleflora!”
Seriously, this was their idea of customer service. I’ve used Teleflora before because they have decent prices and don’t charge $30 for delivery to my mom like 800-flowers, but their guarantee is a joke and their service is unreliable at best. Plus their customer service agents are obviously unsupervised lemurs. I mean, come on, “The florist didn’t get their flowers”? That’s like saying you’ve missed your curfew by three hours because the car ran out of gas even though your neck is covered in hickeys and your shirt’s not buttoned straight. It’s a stupid thing to say and we all know it. Do not insult my intelligence.
Finally, I called a local florist directly, which is what I should have done in the first place, and guess what? They delivered the same damn flowers the next day for $8 cheaper than Teleflora. Moral of the story – stay away from Teleflora and just google local florists if you’re out of state.
In closing, let me just mention that because my husband didn’t think we had enough going on, we are now the proud parents of a saltwater aquarium. Neither of us knows anything about fish except what kinds make good sushi. But it’s so relaxing, he said. It’ll be a good hobby for us, he said, and by us I mean you, because you are the one who will actually read up on these little creatures who have an amazing propensity toward dropping dead.
As it turns out, watching marine fish is relaxing, during the three minutes per week that things seem to be working as they should. However, in the interim you have to take water samples and research diseases and know who will eat whom and who dies of what and oh yeah – nobody really knows squat for sure because I have consulted at least 5 “reputable” sources and every one of them gives different, conflicting advice. So you grumble to your husband that they’re just stupid fish and you don’t care if they all kick the reef, but then you somehow get to actually liking the damn things, especially the baby eel who eats dead fish off a stick like they’re s’mores, and you feel guilty when they look at you with their little beady fish eyes like “Didn’t you see Finding Nemo, you heartless wench? I just want my mommy.” so you frantically try to keep them all alive.
Everything seems fine for a week or so, but then you come downstairs one morning and Dory is a floater with those little X’s over its eyes like in cartoons and everyone else seems like they’re at Davy Jones’ locker door. Then you ask the guys at the fish store and they give you some medicine and the rest of the fish seem OK but not for long because when you treat the other fish for what killed the first two the stupid fucking starfish gets copper poisoning and then it dies and you cry for an hour, not really because of the starfish although you feel a little bad because online it says DO NOT USE ON STARFISH OR YOU WILL KILL THEM but nobody told you that before. You cry because of every other little thing piling up on you like an avalanche of crap even though in retrospect your problems seem insignificant and petty and it’s selfish to complain but you don’t care, you just feel exhausted and strung out all the time and so you either cry over the dead starfish or you throw yourself in traffic.
There. That wraps up this week’s edition of The Whine List. Who wants margaritas?
I always laugh when Aunt Becky & Lola share the odd and sometimes disturbing search terms people use to find their blogs. Now, I used to get mostly boring things like “need nice things to say to my parents”, so I never shared those with you, because who cares? However, since I started hanging out with Notorious BEX & The Divine Ms. Ebola I have started to write posts about stuff like the time a naked girl knocked on my hotel room door. Apparently, that’s bringing out The Freaky Peepies. Woot!
Since I’m busy being vomited on this week (not on purpose, you perverts – the boy has a stomach virus and no idea that he should aim for a receptacle), I thought I’d share some of my personal favorites from the vault. I find it hilarious that because I have a picture of a coconut crab on my sidebar, I am now, apparently, some sort of coconut crab expert. And I didn’t even have to go to school! Please note that the search terms (indicated by italics) are real, but I’m paraphrasing and editing a bit in some cases to make my Internet Freaks seem more articulate, more amusing, and also to conceal their horrid spelling.
“How can I protect myself against coconut crab attacks?”
Dear Future Zombie Coconut Crab Attack Victim - The best way to avoid coconut crab attacks is to stay away from where coconut crabs live. To be absolutely sure, eliminate all locales where coconuts are readily available, such as Whole Foods Market and the Miss Hawaiian Tropic Pageant.
In the unlikely event that you’re attacked by a coconut crab on an Alaskan Cruise or in the restroom at the local gas station, your best bet is probably to use a flamethrower, a la Sigourney Weaver in Aliens. Good luck.
Zombie Crab Attack Waiting to Happen
“I found a crab that looks like a big Jesus.”
Dear Sinner – Your crab is not likely to be the real Jesus. Just to be safe, though, I would think twice about making His Crabness into an entree. How awkward would it be if you had to explain the real secret behind your ”Heavenly Crab Salad” at the pearly gates?
“Can coconut crabs be eaten?”
Dear Low On The Food Chain – Well, I’m no Andrew Zimmern, but I suppose anything alive can technically be eaten. Unfortunately for you, I’m going to have to say that it’s far more likely that you will be eaten by the crab, since they’re about 3 feet across. If you do decide to try and put coconut crabs on the menu, check carefully for any resemblance of the crab to Jesus first. See my notes above on why.
“I’m looking for monkey fuckin (sic) a coconut porn.”
Dear PETA’s Most Wanted – Hm. Good luck with that, slick. I’m pretty sure there are no monkeys with coconut fetishes. If you’re looking for plain old-fashioned monkey sex, try the local zoo. I hear monkeys are notoriously unafraid to show off their goodies to onlookers. Kind of like Paris Hilton, only cuter.
“I have to sell my soul to you.”
Dear Missed Your Exit On Life’s Little Freeway - Actually, that’s not really my department. I could verbally demoralize you if it would make you feel better, however. Then you can wash my car.
“I wore a lipstick to seduce him.”
Dear Wasting Good Lipstick – Unless it’s your first date, you’re better off waving the remote control around, honey.
“Your parents warned you about me.”
Dear Hot Blond, Blue-Eyed Bad Boy With A Motorcycle - That is why we ended up drunkenly making out in a parking garage at 2 AM the summer before I went to college. I think.
“Big butt special”
Dear Next Food Network Star – OK, I couldn’t even edit this one because I think it’s a classic all by itself. Two things:
1. If you find a copy of any menu containing a Big Butt Special, please e-mail me. Because I will immediately go visit that restaurant.
2. I am totally making this into my new blog tag line.
Mommyhood and Life – Now serving the Big Butt Special!
On that note, this episode of Won’t You Be My Slightly Creepy Neighbor is a wrap. Tell me, who’s been finding you lately?
