Day 6, August 20. 11:23. I've been up since 6:30 this morning for some crazy reason. I don't even get up that early for work!? You're gonna' think I'm lying when I tell you what's happened in the few short hours I've been awake.
After a quick trip to Safeway for Lean Pockets and Coke Zero, I got home and peered into my fish tank. Norman Bates bit the dust. So did Hog. Then I found my dead trigger. A dead chromis. I watched Sophie Fatale's last few bursts of energy before she ate it, too. Flo is gasping for breath and Puff Daddy is on his last leg, clinging to a rock and turning white, so both will be toilet bound by the end of the day.
Turns out you can't put Melafix in the tank when it already has copper in it. Who knew? Not even my fish man M. But, go figure. My goddamn damsels seem totally fine. Bizarre. Oh, and just to make things worse, I added dose #2 about an hour ago before I knew it was the sole reason for all the murders.
Yes, I cried. There's nothing quite like watching a beautiful fish suffocate. Like life wasn't bad enough for them already, swimming peacefully along and then getting sucked up a vacuum to live life in 55 gallons of tinkered with water.
I honestly don't know what to say and am completely unmotivated to tell you a story with any humor. You'll just have to make up your own today.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Day 5 yesterday. Let me explain.
Day 5, yesterday, the 19th of August. Before you call me a slacker for missing an entry, let me tell you what happened. Work was totally nut jobs since I was racing around trying to get everything done before heading out on vacation. I was at a post house, then back to the office, grocery store, etc. I couldn't see anything the entire time cuz my eyes have been glued shut for three days straight (thank you, ragweed). I got home, quickly straightened the house to 'presentable,' then had my friend H over for girl talk and wine.
And now I have a reason to tell you about my fishlets. Yesterday I had a clownfish, 2 damsels (Fats and Captain Quint), 1 trigger (Bruce), 1 angel (Norman Bates), 1 puffer (Puff Daddy), 1 gramma (Flo), 1 hogfish (too new to have name yet), 6 chromis, 1 pajama cardinal (Rizzo), and 1 yellow tang (Sophie Fatale). And over the past week or so I noticed Sophie F turning brown, like little spots on her nose and a brown line down the middle of her body. Yeah, weird, right? So I talked to my fish man M and he said it was a bacterial infection and they needed Melafix. So, last night he swung by around 9:30 and we treated the tank, and before I went to bed I noticed that Flo and the Hog were both breathing pretty heavily.....
Anyway, I was full of wine and courage, so I Mac Daddy'd fish man M in the doorway with a big kiss, then sent him and H off into the night to go to dreamland.
And then I got up this morning.
And now I have a reason to tell you about my fishlets. Yesterday I had a clownfish, 2 damsels (Fats and Captain Quint), 1 trigger (Bruce), 1 angel (Norman Bates), 1 puffer (Puff Daddy), 1 gramma (Flo), 1 hogfish (too new to have name yet), 6 chromis, 1 pajama cardinal (Rizzo), and 1 yellow tang (Sophie Fatale). And over the past week or so I noticed Sophie F turning brown, like little spots on her nose and a brown line down the middle of her body. Yeah, weird, right? So I talked to my fish man M and he said it was a bacterial infection and they needed Melafix. So, last night he swung by around 9:30 and we treated the tank, and before I went to bed I noticed that Flo and the Hog were both breathing pretty heavily.....
Anyway, I was full of wine and courage, so I Mac Daddy'd fish man M in the doorway with a big kiss, then sent him and H off into the night to go to dreamland.
And then I got up this morning.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Day 4 lazy eye and sh*t stains ... let that percolate
Day 4, 3:02 pm. Wednesday. If anyone out there's actually wondering about today's title, I'm thankfully not referring to myself with the sh*t stain reference. Last night I did a pantload of laundry and changed my sheets right before I went to bed. It was like heaven. White, clean, soft, fluffy, perfect. Middle of the night, I'm still up for some unknown reason and The Beast is lying beside me, splayed out on his back. Suddenly, I spot something on the sheet that looks like a big, brown bug.
But it's not.
It's an a-hole print.
I'll leave it at that, because it's really quite a disgusting story, but it happens to fall under the overall theme of my life. What else could I do but give The Beast a squeeze.
On to another uplifting story!
When I was a baby I got meningitis and had to be stuffed into an oxygen tent for a while. Upon release, I guess my right eye was all out of whack - floating around to the left when it was supposed to be looking right, right because it couldn't look left. Luckily I wasn't old enough at that point to realize people were looking at my forehead instead of my eyes to avoid feeling awkward.
Things went on like that for nine years. My parents tried everything - glasses, eye patches (yes, I was Little Miss Popular in school), pretty much anything to help straighten me and my eye out.
Unfortunately, nothing worked. And thank God my parents did for me what millions of others didn't do for their own children. They took me to Children's Hospital in PA for eye surgery. Pretty much all I remember is being wheeled away with a stuffed Snoopy clenched in my sweaty fist, crying without any tears falling down my cheeks. Although I don't think my parents were too thrilled, either.
Supposedly the whole thing took 10 minutes and then I magically woke up ... to some little piss ant down the row of beds barfing violently from the anesthesia. Wimp. I got outta' there and but quick - home to a creepy mansion of sorts in Emsworth, Pennsylvania. I have no idea how old that house was, but it scared the daylights out of me. I made the stupid mistake of watching Salem's Lot in 3rd grade, and this house made me pay the price for it - every single day we lived there.
Back to the gooey eyeball. Sitting in the haunted bar off the kitchen, with a shit-ton of garter snakes crawling on and in the rocks right outside the window, my parents let me watch Jaws out of sympathy for being such a freak. When it was over, not only was I too chicken to walk past one of the thatched windows (remember that kid vampire floating to the window in his jammies, scraping with his claw-like fingernails, whispering 'let me in, let me in,' with that nasty looking white skin?), I couldn't even pee in the toilet because there was water in there and I knew a shark would shoot out from below and take a chunk right out of my left butt cheek.
Anyway. Whoever did that surgery did a fabulous job, because 31 years later only a real pro or someone who knows me better than anyone can tell. Get me drunk or really tired and you'll see it go a little squirrely. I also have no depth perception in that eye so doctors constantly accuse me of failing tests on purpose. Um, yeah, what good would that do me?
Back then I was too young to realize that my medical journey wasn't going to stop with a lazy eye.
But it's not.
It's an a-hole print.
I'll leave it at that, because it's really quite a disgusting story, but it happens to fall under the overall theme of my life. What else could I do but give The Beast a squeeze.
On to another uplifting story!
When I was a baby I got meningitis and had to be stuffed into an oxygen tent for a while. Upon release, I guess my right eye was all out of whack - floating around to the left when it was supposed to be looking right, right because it couldn't look left. Luckily I wasn't old enough at that point to realize people were looking at my forehead instead of my eyes to avoid feeling awkward.
Things went on like that for nine years. My parents tried everything - glasses, eye patches (yes, I was Little Miss Popular in school), pretty much anything to help straighten me and my eye out.
Unfortunately, nothing worked. And thank God my parents did for me what millions of others didn't do for their own children. They took me to Children's Hospital in PA for eye surgery. Pretty much all I remember is being wheeled away with a stuffed Snoopy clenched in my sweaty fist, crying without any tears falling down my cheeks. Although I don't think my parents were too thrilled, either.
Supposedly the whole thing took 10 minutes and then I magically woke up ... to some little piss ant down the row of beds barfing violently from the anesthesia. Wimp. I got outta' there and but quick - home to a creepy mansion of sorts in Emsworth, Pennsylvania. I have no idea how old that house was, but it scared the daylights out of me. I made the stupid mistake of watching Salem's Lot in 3rd grade, and this house made me pay the price for it - every single day we lived there.
Back to the gooey eyeball. Sitting in the haunted bar off the kitchen, with a shit-ton of garter snakes crawling on and in the rocks right outside the window, my parents let me watch Jaws out of sympathy for being such a freak. When it was over, not only was I too chicken to walk past one of the thatched windows (remember that kid vampire floating to the window in his jammies, scraping with his claw-like fingernails, whispering 'let me in, let me in,' with that nasty looking white skin?), I couldn't even pee in the toilet because there was water in there and I knew a shark would shoot out from below and take a chunk right out of my left butt cheek.
Anyway. Whoever did that surgery did a fabulous job, because 31 years later only a real pro or someone who knows me better than anyone can tell. Get me drunk or really tired and you'll see it go a little squirrely. I also have no depth perception in that eye so doctors constantly accuse me of failing tests on purpose. Um, yeah, what good would that do me?
Back then I was too young to realize that my medical journey wasn't going to stop with a lazy eye.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Day 3 the case of the stolen tomato
Day 3, Tuesday, August 17th. I decided to write my script at home today, since yesterday afternoon my office was 80 degrees and I actually got a fever. Sounds like a delicious place to try and concentrate, 'eh? Not so much. And I refuse to get sick before my vacation.
I thought today might be rather uneventful, but as usual, I was wrong. Around noon my stomach started making grumbly noises, and considering my inhalation of 1/2 a pound of ground beef yesterday, I marched into the kitchen to make a salad. I threw some grilled chicken in the microwave to defrost (which magically broke, by the way - the plastic part that rotates the glass plate flew out and almost lodged into my right earlobe a few weeks ago), got out some lettuce, carrots, cauliflower, cucumber, your usual salad fare. Then, I realized that the one tomato on my three tomato plants was red and juicy looking when I saw it the day before.
Excitedly, I grabbed the keys and bolted out the front door. And, what did I see? A green, leafy stalk with no f'n tomato on it. Now, I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't a prize winning piece of fruit in the first place (tomatoes are fruit, right?) - but that's beside the point. Even if it was crawling with maggots, that's MY tomato, and my decision as to whether or not I want to eat it. But I was rudely stripped of that honor today at approximately 12:47.
In contemplation of what I should do about this highly unfortunate incident, I continued to make my red-lacking salad, hoping it would taste better than it looked. Let's just say that it was ok at best, and I couldn't bring myself to finish it.
Abrupt ending. I've decided that I'm changing the slant of this blog. I'm gonna start at the beginning and bore everyone with 40 years of fun, sad, life-changing, life-threatening, endearing, crazy, unbelievable, loving, daring stories. I'm sure there are more adjectives, but most of the time there are too many anyway.
So, starting tomorrow, things are gonna' read a little differently around these parts.
I thought today might be rather uneventful, but as usual, I was wrong. Around noon my stomach started making grumbly noises, and considering my inhalation of 1/2 a pound of ground beef yesterday, I marched into the kitchen to make a salad. I threw some grilled chicken in the microwave to defrost (which magically broke, by the way - the plastic part that rotates the glass plate flew out and almost lodged into my right earlobe a few weeks ago), got out some lettuce, carrots, cauliflower, cucumber, your usual salad fare. Then, I realized that the one tomato on my three tomato plants was red and juicy looking when I saw it the day before.
Excitedly, I grabbed the keys and bolted out the front door. And, what did I see? A green, leafy stalk with no f'n tomato on it. Now, I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't a prize winning piece of fruit in the first place (tomatoes are fruit, right?) - but that's beside the point. Even if it was crawling with maggots, that's MY tomato, and my decision as to whether or not I want to eat it. But I was rudely stripped of that honor today at approximately 12:47.
In contemplation of what I should do about this highly unfortunate incident, I continued to make my red-lacking salad, hoping it would taste better than it looked. Let's just say that it was ok at best, and I couldn't bring myself to finish it.
Abrupt ending. I've decided that I'm changing the slant of this blog. I'm gonna start at the beginning and bore everyone with 40 years of fun, sad, life-changing, life-threatening, endearing, crazy, unbelievable, loving, daring stories. I'm sure there are more adjectives, but most of the time there are too many anyway.
So, starting tomorrow, things are gonna' read a little differently around these parts.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Day 2 explosion
It's Day 2, August 16th, 2010. Monday. I'm sitting at work trying to figure out how to get motivated to write a script on something I know very little about. Truth be told, I don't much care right now, because I'm going on vacation next week and still haven't decided when I'm coming back to the office.
First, though, let me tell you what happened this morning at 7:53. I was puttering around, fed The Beast (you haven't met him yet), fed the fishlets, and then was ready to feed myself some iced coffee. Put the required 6 cubes in the glass, ran a purple capsule through my Nespresso machine, grabbed the milk from the fridge, poured it in to create a thing of perfection. I opened my eyes really big with excitement, lifted the glass to my lips, and BLAM!! An ice cube exploded and shot coffee directly into my left eye. It also sprayed my entire face and dropped all over the floor, so you can imagine the force of this thing.
When it's Monday, you don't want to be up anyway, and the last thing you want to do is go to work, I did NOT need this.
Just thought you'd find that a humorous hold-over until we get to Part 2 tonight.
OK, maybe not tonight, per se. It's 1:42 and there's something I have to get off my chest. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my sister, let's call her Anne, and I gave her an assignment that a professor of mine in college gave me long, long ago. I told her to write me a one-pager on Who You Think You Are, and I received it today before lunch.
Now, I originally gave her this task because I thought I'd learn something new about her or I'd get some kind of insight from her writing style. Instead, I got the saddest, rawest, most honest self-assessment I've ever read. Anne and I are only 13 months apart - that makes us some kind of twins, I forget the name - but no one could be closer to my heart. So imagine my reading this, my heart breaking further with every line.
But just as clouds continue to try to cover my world on a daily basis, I turn into Mr. Fucking Rogers and sing her a happy sunshine song. That is, until I can deal with it in person next week.
This is dedicated to you, my sweet Anne.
I'm Proud of You, by Mr. Fred M.F'in. Rogers
I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're as proud as I am proud of you.
I'm proud of you.
I hope that you are proud.
And that you're learning how important you are,
How important each person you see can be,
Discovering each one's specialty
Is the most important learning.
I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're as proud as I am proud of you.
I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're proud of you, too.
One quick departing note. I had lunch with my friend Eileen today - cheeseburgers and french fries - and she just emailed saying that the entire thing is currently lodged in her aorta. Now, how in the hell am I gonna' fix that!?
First, though, let me tell you what happened this morning at 7:53. I was puttering around, fed The Beast (you haven't met him yet), fed the fishlets, and then was ready to feed myself some iced coffee. Put the required 6 cubes in the glass, ran a purple capsule through my Nespresso machine, grabbed the milk from the fridge, poured it in to create a thing of perfection. I opened my eyes really big with excitement, lifted the glass to my lips, and BLAM!! An ice cube exploded and shot coffee directly into my left eye. It also sprayed my entire face and dropped all over the floor, so you can imagine the force of this thing.
When it's Monday, you don't want to be up anyway, and the last thing you want to do is go to work, I did NOT need this.
Just thought you'd find that a humorous hold-over until we get to Part 2 tonight.
OK, maybe not tonight, per se. It's 1:42 and there's something I have to get off my chest. A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my sister, let's call her Anne, and I gave her an assignment that a professor of mine in college gave me long, long ago. I told her to write me a one-pager on Who You Think You Are, and I received it today before lunch.
Now, I originally gave her this task because I thought I'd learn something new about her or I'd get some kind of insight from her writing style. Instead, I got the saddest, rawest, most honest self-assessment I've ever read. Anne and I are only 13 months apart - that makes us some kind of twins, I forget the name - but no one could be closer to my heart. So imagine my reading this, my heart breaking further with every line.
But just as clouds continue to try to cover my world on a daily basis, I turn into Mr. Fucking Rogers and sing her a happy sunshine song. That is, until I can deal with it in person next week.
This is dedicated to you, my sweet Anne.
I'm Proud of You, by Mr. Fred M.F'in. Rogers
I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're as proud as I am proud of you.
I'm proud of you.
I hope that you are proud.
And that you're learning how important you are,
How important each person you see can be,
Discovering each one's specialty
Is the most important learning.
I'm proud of you. I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're as proud as I am proud of you.
I'm proud of you.
I hope that you're proud of you, too.
One quick departing note. I had lunch with my friend Eileen today - cheeseburgers and french fries - and she just emailed saying that the entire thing is currently lodged in her aorta. Now, how in the hell am I gonna' fix that!?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Day 1 nuttery and contemplation
So, some really weird sh*t tends to happen to me on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. Not a day goes by that I'd consider boring, and sometimes that'd be a welcome relief. I could go back in time and fill you in on all the craziness that got me to this point, but that'll be revealed all in good time. For now, let's just start with today, August 15th, Sunday. Day 1 of pure, unadulterated truth as told via this blog that no one will probably read, with 364 more to come.
In preparation for my yoga class, I decide to try out this new razor I bought. It's one of those bush trimming types that you stick a battery in, adjust the trim length you want and then go to town. I guess I got a little over zealous (is that supposed to be one word?), because I had the leftovers poking me like a mass of stinging nettles. When you're trying to do a downward facing dog or triangle pose, let me tell you, it doesn't feel good. I did make it through the class, sweating as usual more than anyone in there. I actually have to bring a towel to mop off my face because I'm blinded by sweat dripping into my tear ducts - and those don't work anyway, so it's extra painful. Oh, I forgot to mention the tornado I had to drive through to get to class, but I manned up and made it through OK.
Not much else of true interest happened for the rest of the day. I noticed that Fats, my domino damselfish (I have a 55 gallon saltwater tank filled with aggressive fish) is getting his ass kicked - and but good. His little fins are all shredded, and Rizzo - my cardinal fish - she has chunks bitten out of her tail fin, too. Recent deaths include Mama Cass, my female clownfish who committed suicide, one of my chromis, Wilho, my wrasse, Frenchie and Marty - 2 other cardinal fish. Whatever. I'll get completely into the fish some other time. It's a drama within itself.
I had some Thai food that gave me incredible gas (don't act like you don't have it), and my upstairs fire alarm started going off right during the end of golf. It's only 8:30 now, but I can promise some other bullshit is going to happen to me before I go to bed in about 3 hours. You'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to find out about it, though.
In preparation for my yoga class, I decide to try out this new razor I bought. It's one of those bush trimming types that you stick a battery in, adjust the trim length you want and then go to town. I guess I got a little over zealous (is that supposed to be one word?), because I had the leftovers poking me like a mass of stinging nettles. When you're trying to do a downward facing dog or triangle pose, let me tell you, it doesn't feel good. I did make it through the class, sweating as usual more than anyone in there. I actually have to bring a towel to mop off my face because I'm blinded by sweat dripping into my tear ducts - and those don't work anyway, so it's extra painful. Oh, I forgot to mention the tornado I had to drive through to get to class, but I manned up and made it through OK.
Not much else of true interest happened for the rest of the day. I noticed that Fats, my domino damselfish (I have a 55 gallon saltwater tank filled with aggressive fish) is getting his ass kicked - and but good. His little fins are all shredded, and Rizzo - my cardinal fish - she has chunks bitten out of her tail fin, too. Recent deaths include Mama Cass, my female clownfish who committed suicide, one of my chromis, Wilho, my wrasse, Frenchie and Marty - 2 other cardinal fish. Whatever. I'll get completely into the fish some other time. It's a drama within itself.
I had some Thai food that gave me incredible gas (don't act like you don't have it), and my upstairs fire alarm started going off right during the end of golf. It's only 8:30 now, but I can promise some other bullshit is going to happen to me before I go to bed in about 3 hours. You'll have to wait 'til tomorrow to find out about it, though.
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