Dude. He's, like, a fish.

At Thanksgiving, several family memebers asked if we had a pet and/or were we getting Bobby a puppy for Christmas. My initial reaction (Hell to the no) was usually tempered with my classic response that I only house break one thing at a time (Charlie is still in diapers). My oldest would love to get a dog. Or a cat. Or basically any kind of pet with fur. (For some reason, he does not think his two year old brother counts, although I see many similarities). I have no interest in getting a dog for the obvious reasons. I will be the one who walks it, bathes it, trains it and picks up it's poop. A cat seems like the next best thing but I am horribly allergic. So that's out.

We have had one pet in the past. A fish. Well, I guess it counts as a fish.

At our old house there was a large pond in the backyard and one day all the neighborhood kids were scooping all these tiny minnows out and trying to sell them to each other. (Note: The collective idiocy of the neighborhood children was one of the big reasons for our move). In one of his less shrewd moments, Bobby came running in the house asking for $5 to buy a fish. I explained to him that he could scoop one out for free. He needed a fish bowl but I wasn't prepared to invest any money in housing for a free minnow that probably wouldn't last the day. I found an old take-out wonton soup container (this was during my incredible wonton soup cravings while pregnant with Charlie), added some pond water and our little pet was all set up. Bobby named him Dude. I'm not sure why. At the time, he was really pushing us to name his baby brother Corn. Again, not sure why.

Dude grew a little. Very little. Later we read that fish will only grow enough to fit their environment. And that wonton soup container was nice and tall but not so wide. He seemed happy though. (I can't believe I just wrote that. Can a fish seem happy?) We refreshed his (nasty) water from the pond and tried to feed him fish food from the store (a 79 cent investment) but he didn't seem interested. He was, I guess living on whatever was in all the pond water (which was rather murky).

Bobby got really attached to Dude. The Husband and I could not believe he was still alive. We explained to Bobby that he probably wouldn't live very long since he was really meant to live in a big pond. Bobby was convinced that we had saved him. Surely, some larger fish or turtle would have eaten Dude by now had he been left to shift for himself out there!

A year and a half later Dude finally went belly up. A YEAR AND A HALF. A year and a half of changing that horrible water and Bobby worrying when we traveled if Dude would be lonely. He would usually set up an elaborate ring of stuffed animals around his bowl/soup container. Which actually seemed to me like it would scare the crap out of the little fish to see all those large brightly colored furry things about to take over his home. But Bobby was convinced that they would keep Dude company.

But I digress. Dude, he died. And Bobby was broken hearted. He cried and cried. He was so worried that Dude had gotten sick and he hadn't noticed or that we should have done something different (ahem, like maybe get him a real bowl). We put Dude in an old matchbox on top of a tissue and buried him under a tree in our backyard. Bobby had us put a picture of him in the box with Dude so that he wouldn't be lonely. A few months later we moved and Bobby was upset that we were leaving Dude behind. There was talk of exhuming him and moving him with us but I quickly killed that idea.

With this much drama around a free, wild minnow, I cannot imagine the trauma and drama if we lost a real pet. So, for now, we will remain puppy free. Unless someone knows where I can get a puppy that fits in a wonton soup container.

Well I Do Declare

Please add me to your blog! I used to read you all the time and then you went private. I was so excited to see you comment! Thanks in advance!

I'm a Two Faced Bitch

So I got my hair cut. Really short. For me, anyway. I have basically had the same haircut since 8th grade: a slightly above the shoulder bob or sometimes I let it grow past my shoulders and then get sick of it and cut it. So last Saturday I had it cut to my chin. It's still a bob, just REALLY short. At first, I loved it. So light! So easy! And hey, I probably lost of few pounds in just hair so, bonus.

The problem is that half of the time, when I look in the mirror, I think, "It looks good! Just like I wanted it". The other half I get a glimpse of myself and think, "Sweet Lord, what a hatchet job"! It's like that girl in the Seinfeld episode who looked great in one sort of light and horrible in another. That's me, but with my hair. I'm a two face.

Also, my annual Scrooge-fest has begun. Normally, I love Christmas but several Christmases ago we got one of those advent boxes. You know, with 24 little boxes inside one big box? Anyway, my husband told our oldest child, Bobby, that the little gifts inside were from one of Santa's elves, who dropped them off while checking to see if Bobby was being good. It became known as the Elf Box and it is the bane of my exsistence.

It is really difficult to find enough crap to put in all those little boxes without getting too repetitive. The Husband finally said to just buy bigger stuff and he would write a clue from the elf to put in the box that would lead to the treat. This opened a whole new can of worms. Bobby loved the "hunts" as he called them. Problem is, he now expects them. It totally Scrooges me out. I sigh as soon as I see that damn Elf Box unpacked every year.

I know this really doesn't sound like that big of a problem, but on top of all the regular Christmas shopping, decorating, baking, wrapping, etc. I have to come up with 24 gifts/candies and/or the notes and clues for hunts! Plus, I always forget to put the treats in the box. We have to wait until after Bobby is asleep to do it, but by then I have forgotten/blocked out that we have the stupid thing. This year, it only took me until the second night to forget. I remembered with a start at about 11:45 and sat up, "Crap! Did you do the Elf box"? This of course, woke up The Husband (as it was meant to). Of course he didn't. So I got up to put the damn treat in the box. What do I find in the box? A note to the elf, from Bobby, asking: "Dear Elf, What is your name?" He even drew a blank for the elf to fill in.

Now, I can be creative, but coming up with elf names on the spot at 11:45pm when I have already been sleeping, turns out not to be my strong suit. So I did what anyone else would have done. I went back upstairs and woke The Husband up again.

Me: "He wants to know what the elf's name is!"

Husband: "Mike."

Me: "Seriously? Mike?"

Husband: "Yes. Mike"

Me: "Wow. I would have picked Snowflake or Gumdrop or something. Ok. Mike it is."

Which I think turned out to be a good pick since Bobby seemed to be excited about the fact that the elf was named Mike, but I'm not really sure why.

Anyway, I have been grousing and bitching about this box for three days so the bright side is: only 21 more days of bitching to go!

Note: I originally thought of three other stories to write about but every one of them involved poop. And poop somehow just didn't seem very seasonal. Of course two faced bitches = reason for the season.

Sex and Money

Yesterday while out and about running errands, that old '80's song, "Livin' in the Wild, Wild West" came on the radio. There is a line that says, "Gimme gimme safe sex". So Bobby says, "Mom, what's safe sex?" Great.

Now I am a mom who believes in answering honestly. He has already had the rundown about how babies are born and due to a trip to the pharmacy with him a few weeks ago, he knows that there is "special medicine mommy takes that keeps her from having more babies". He's an inquisitive one, this kid.

Anyhoo, I decided not to give him the full rundown on STD's, but since he already sort of knew about birth control I told him that it meant that you were careful when you had sex to make sure that you weren't going to have a baby. So then he wanted to go over the whole "How you make a baby" which is fine, but really? I just wanted to go to Target.

Thankfully, he was diverted by driving by our bank which brought up his favorite topic, money. He had to go through all the different ways you could acquire big bills. Forget one dollar bills, my kid likes fives, tens and twenties. It is his dream to have a fifty or one hundred dollar bill.

He always says stuff like, "If I saved up three weeks worth of allowance and added the money I already have I could go to the bank and get a ten and a five and still have some ones". I tell him that is correct. "If I saved up my allowance for two months and added the money I have I could get a twenty and a ten, if I had some change from my piggy bank". You see how this conversation was going. He could do this all day. I guess it's good that he understands money but can't we just talk about Star Wars again?

Read this

How is it that I am just now reading The Glass Castle? I started it yesterday and ended up sitting up until 1am to finish it. It was so good. I don't know why I like reading stories about someone's crazy, dysfunctional childhood, but I do. I've read Angela's Ashes several times. This was sort of the American version of that book. I think the thing I like about both of these books is that the author still loves his/her parents very much. There is anger and bewilderment but also love.

Also, I think it makes me feel better about my own life. I quit crabbing about people stealing my towel at the pool or that I spent this morning scraping chewing gum out of my dryer. (I always check the pockets, but that damn piece of Super Bubble eluded me).

Anyhoo, if you haven't read this wonderful book yet, you really should.

Urinetown

The neighborhood pool has not had an auspicious start this year. My first trip this year someone STOLE my towel! Hello, it's a neighborhood pool. Do not think for one minute that when I see someone with my Lands End pink and white polka dot towel that I will not reclaim it. I'm afraid it might get ugly. I was stranded with no towel for me or Charlie since I thought, "He's little - we'll share this big towel". So we were both stuck.

The last time I went to the pool we were playing on the stairs which have these fountains that shoot water out where a lot of the younger kids play. This girl who was at least nine or ten goes shooting up the steps holding herself, screaming, "MOM! I HAVE TO GO THE BATHROOM!" Before her mom can even put down her book, the kid yells, "I'M GOING RIGHT NOW!" Sure enough, she has pee running down her legs (right in front of my lounge chair, of course).

Now, friends, if this had happened to me, I would have died a thousand deaths right there. But I think I discovered the problem when I looked over and the mother is laughing her ass off. Not helping. Not jumping to her feet to help her daughter to the bathroom. Not even pretending like she doesn't know her. Just laughing so hard she can't speak and pointing in the direction of the bathroom.

The girl starts for the bathroom which is completely at the other end of the pool. She runs/waddles half way there and stops, turns around and screams back at her mother, "IT'S OK! I'M FINISHED NOW!" Well, thanks. So back in she hops. The mother never even got up and said anything to her. She was WAY too old for this to even have happened. Much less not to at least have someone tell her that you may not want to scream about peeing your pants across a public pool. It's only mid-June. It's gonna be a LONG summer at the pool.

Um, Hi

Oops! Is it June already? Ok, I have no real excuse for not writing except the end of school craziness, another round of the barfing flu (don't worry - NO ONE got left out this time!) and summer malaise. Since it is already way too hot, I will hopefully be inside where it is cool and will be able to get back to my blog. Anyway, if you're still here - sorry!