Jason opened the door last night to a good friend of ours who was bringing over a late baby gift. We welcomed her in, showed her around, let her see our sleeping son all snuggled in his blanket, chewed the fat.
She gave us a beautifully-wrapped box.
On the top of the box was a small sachet of Pee Pee Tee Pees. Totally awesome.
In the box was a wipe warmer. The EXACT wipe warmer we have.
There are moments where you must make a split-second decision about how you'll react. I was, of course, completely touched by the gift. I was also feeling stupid because I clearly had not updated my registry, thinking we wouldn't be getting any more gifts after I had my baby shower. I was also thinking another wipe warmer would be extremely useful over at my dad's place. I was ALSO wondering which one of these many sentiments I should display in front of our friend, as she was eagerly watching my reaction as I opened the box.
That's just too much thinking for me, kids. My brain completely short-circuited.
"Oh, we LUVVVV it!" I cooed. "Aidan won't have to deal with cold wipes anymore!"
There were smiles. There was more conversation. And then Jason did it:
"Oh, you have to see the nursery. It looks so great."
And so we traipsed off to Aidan's room. And after we all admired the wall colors, the adorable crib set, the bear-themed blanket over the matching glider, we saw the existing wipe warmer. And smiles faded.
Sigh.
And tons of excuses followed. Because really, we were excited about the second warmer, but do you really want to announce at the gift opening that, oh, sorry, already have this? No, of course not. But now it looked like we had totally lied. And suddenly our friend announced that she REAALLY should get going, and bye thanks for the gift, and she ran out the door.
Le sigh.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Monday, November 3, 2008
where anne completely reveals her dorky musical side
Most of you who know me know that I spent a substantial portion of my young adulthood pursuing a career as a professional opera singer. Sort of, anyway. I made it about as far as grad school, and realized that the idea of having a career largely dependent on other peoples' opinions of me was my personal idea of hell. Entertaining a crowd and singing my heart out was one thing, but all those music critics and judgmental professors and opera fanatics who tear apart every single performance? Nuh-uh. So that was sort of a discouraging factor in the process. I was so insecure about myself, my voice, my potential... there was no way I'd survive the first bad review or harsh comment, I thought.
Then there was the question of the Fach. No, it's not a dirty word, I promise: your Fach is your vocal classification, like "coloratura soprano" or "dramatic tenor". All through my vocal training, everyone I knew seemed to fall so easily into a vocal category, repertoire was easy to pick, roles assigned easily. Me? Not so much. I've been called many different things: lyric mezzo, dramatic soprano still needing to fully mature into my voice, lyric soprano with a stunted high range, and "I don't know what you are." Soprano arias scared the bejeezus out of me because I always had High-Note-Itis: attempting anything higher than a high B-flat made my throat inexplicably choke up and tighten, frustrating my teachers and leaving me in tears. Mezzo arias... well, they were considerably less scary as they contained way fewer high notes, but I always sounded like a soprano singing mezzo arias because I had no high notes, which may have been true. I didn't have that rich coloring and weight in my voice I always thought was necessary to really sing mezzo roles, even the higher, lighter ones. So I was stuck.
And then there were a bunch of other little things: running out of money to pay for my lessons and coachings, seeing friends in the business struggle and live from paycheck to paycheck (which I was already doing, really, but I didn't want to anymore), thinking about my future and seeing nothing but dark fog and a huge question mark, and also feeling like EVERYONE was more talented than I was. (Yeah, I know. I had issues.)
So I stopped the pursuit, mourned the loss of a huge dream, and tried to move on with my life. I abandoned the thought of ever singing before an audience at any opera house, major or obscure, and concentrated on taking a completely different career path. Eventually, I dropped out of the local Bach choir, left the weekend church choir where I was a (meagerly) paid soloist, didn't reaudition for the local opera chorus, and stopped thumbing through music books looking for pieces to sing and learn. Even as I type this now, I can look to my left and see a huge load of classical vocal CDs, filled with the voices of my mentors and idols, that have collected dust and gone mostly unlistened to over the past 7-8 years. I've tried to listen to them and not have my heart filled to overflowing with longing and the realization of a very broken dream, but it usually doesn't happen that way. Even the purely instrumental and orchestral pieces make me fervently wish I'd stuck with the violin or piano lessons.
I still sing. Not like I used to, though. The style of singing I find myself doing on Sunday mornings is leagues away from the world of Mozart, Brahms, and Strauss. I am singing the sort of music I know many of my classical-singing friends would have turned stomachs over, and even now, I still feel like I'm searching for my voice, still trying to figure out the instrument inside of me. I still don't know what the heck kind of voice I have, and I've nearly given up trying to figure it out. Our worship team leader said to me once, "I don't know what to do with your voice." And I don't remember what I said to him at the time, but I probably just shrugged my shoulders and sighed, because I've heard that so, so many times in my life and I *still* don't know what to say to it. Sorry I'm so difficult. Sorry I do not have an easily-categorized, compartmentalized voice, people.
Today, I've been hanging out with Aidan. I've turned off the TV, pulled up my laptop with all my music on it, plugged it into our nice speakers, and just started singing along. Aidan was completely mesmerized - turns out I'm more of a hit than those two blond chicks from Baby Einstein. I started out singing some pop stuff to him, and then I switched over to a snippet from Brahms' German Requiem - here's a video of one of my vocal heroes, Barbara Bonney, singing what I sung to Aidan:
Aidan loved it. I sang it to him a few times. It felt so good to be singing like that again. And suddenly, I was back there again, back in that old dream, and that longing to finally have a voice that does things right resurfaced. And I wished that, just once, I could sing that very piece, in front of an audience with an orchestra behind me, no High Note-Itis, all the required breath control (and that song needs three lungs). And it was too difficult not to cry a little and wish for the things that might have been.
I don't know if I'll ever see that dream realized this side of heaven. And I don't have a deep, profound resolution to this story... yet. I'm still working on that. In the meantime, though, I think I'll try and see how it feels to reconnect with a lost part of myself, and maybe even discover the joy in a voice that isn't so easily categorized and has a unique sound all its own.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow: but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." John 16:22 (English translation of part of the lyrics of the above piece)
Then there was the question of the Fach. No, it's not a dirty word, I promise: your Fach is your vocal classification, like "coloratura soprano" or "dramatic tenor". All through my vocal training, everyone I knew seemed to fall so easily into a vocal category, repertoire was easy to pick, roles assigned easily. Me? Not so much. I've been called many different things: lyric mezzo, dramatic soprano still needing to fully mature into my voice, lyric soprano with a stunted high range, and "I don't know what you are." Soprano arias scared the bejeezus out of me because I always had High-Note-Itis: attempting anything higher than a high B-flat made my throat inexplicably choke up and tighten, frustrating my teachers and leaving me in tears. Mezzo arias... well, they were considerably less scary as they contained way fewer high notes, but I always sounded like a soprano singing mezzo arias because I had no high notes, which may have been true. I didn't have that rich coloring and weight in my voice I always thought was necessary to really sing mezzo roles, even the higher, lighter ones. So I was stuck.
And then there were a bunch of other little things: running out of money to pay for my lessons and coachings, seeing friends in the business struggle and live from paycheck to paycheck (which I was already doing, really, but I didn't want to anymore), thinking about my future and seeing nothing but dark fog and a huge question mark, and also feeling like EVERYONE was more talented than I was. (Yeah, I know. I had issues.)
So I stopped the pursuit, mourned the loss of a huge dream, and tried to move on with my life. I abandoned the thought of ever singing before an audience at any opera house, major or obscure, and concentrated on taking a completely different career path. Eventually, I dropped out of the local Bach choir, left the weekend church choir where I was a (meagerly) paid soloist, didn't reaudition for the local opera chorus, and stopped thumbing through music books looking for pieces to sing and learn. Even as I type this now, I can look to my left and see a huge load of classical vocal CDs, filled with the voices of my mentors and idols, that have collected dust and gone mostly unlistened to over the past 7-8 years. I've tried to listen to them and not have my heart filled to overflowing with longing and the realization of a very broken dream, but it usually doesn't happen that way. Even the purely instrumental and orchestral pieces make me fervently wish I'd stuck with the violin or piano lessons.
I still sing. Not like I used to, though. The style of singing I find myself doing on Sunday mornings is leagues away from the world of Mozart, Brahms, and Strauss. I am singing the sort of music I know many of my classical-singing friends would have turned stomachs over, and even now, I still feel like I'm searching for my voice, still trying to figure out the instrument inside of me. I still don't know what the heck kind of voice I have, and I've nearly given up trying to figure it out. Our worship team leader said to me once, "I don't know what to do with your voice." And I don't remember what I said to him at the time, but I probably just shrugged my shoulders and sighed, because I've heard that so, so many times in my life and I *still* don't know what to say to it. Sorry I'm so difficult. Sorry I do not have an easily-categorized, compartmentalized voice, people.
Today, I've been hanging out with Aidan. I've turned off the TV, pulled up my laptop with all my music on it, plugged it into our nice speakers, and just started singing along. Aidan was completely mesmerized - turns out I'm more of a hit than those two blond chicks from Baby Einstein. I started out singing some pop stuff to him, and then I switched over to a snippet from Brahms' German Requiem - here's a video of one of my vocal heroes, Barbara Bonney, singing what I sung to Aidan:
Aidan loved it. I sang it to him a few times. It felt so good to be singing like that again. And suddenly, I was back there again, back in that old dream, and that longing to finally have a voice that does things right resurfaced. And I wished that, just once, I could sing that very piece, in front of an audience with an orchestra behind me, no High Note-Itis, all the required breath control (and that song needs three lungs). And it was too difficult not to cry a little and wish for the things that might have been.
I don't know if I'll ever see that dream realized this side of heaven. And I don't have a deep, profound resolution to this story... yet. I'm still working on that. In the meantime, though, I think I'll try and see how it feels to reconnect with a lost part of myself, and maybe even discover the joy in a voice that isn't so easily categorized and has a unique sound all its own.
"And ye now therefore have sorrow: but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you." John 16:22 (English translation of part of the lyrics of the above piece)
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Saturday, November 1, 2008
whoops... almost
It's 10pm, November 1. I just now remembered that today starts National Blog Posting Month, also affectionately referred to as NaBloPoMo. It's a challenge to bloggers everywhere: post something every day for a month. That's it.
And, in the spirit of just-in-the-nick-of-time blogging, I wish you all a happy NaBloPoMo, and encourage all my bloggy friends to participate with me. You still have a couple of hours left...
And, in the spirit of just-in-the-nick-of-time blogging, I wish you all a happy NaBloPoMo, and encourage all my bloggy friends to participate with me. You still have a couple of hours left...
Friday, October 31, 2008
five fantasy careers
Obviously, I haven't ever held any of these jobs, but I have this feeling that I would be completely AWESOME at them:
1. Talk show host. I think it would be awesome to do schtick with celebrities all day in front of a cheering audience. And I would be one of those extra-cool hosts that gives away totally amazing gifts to my audience, and everyone would jump up and down and cry in joy.
2. Personal shopper to really rich people. I hate shopping for myself - clothes, anyway. But I luvvvv shopping for other people... so then you give me money to buy you awesome things AND pay me on top of that? Seriously sweet.
3. Official taste-tester for Haagen-Daaz. Do I need to explain this one? I didn't think so.
4. Astronaut. I would love to see God's amazing creation from space. Also? That zero-gravity idea really appeals to me. There are no scales in space, yo.
5. Best-selling authoress. Fiction, probably. And I would have some romantic nom de plume, a mysterious photo on the back cover with heavily-made-up eyes, and legions of people wondering who I really am and where do I get my amazing inspiration. Also, I would have an adorable cottage in some remote scenic area where I hole myself to do my writing. And someone to clean up after me, too.
1. Talk show host. I think it would be awesome to do schtick with celebrities all day in front of a cheering audience. And I would be one of those extra-cool hosts that gives away totally amazing gifts to my audience, and everyone would jump up and down and cry in joy.
2. Personal shopper to really rich people. I hate shopping for myself - clothes, anyway. But I luvvvv shopping for other people... so then you give me money to buy you awesome things AND pay me on top of that? Seriously sweet.
3. Official taste-tester for Haagen-Daaz. Do I need to explain this one? I didn't think so.
4. Astronaut. I would love to see God's amazing creation from space. Also? That zero-gravity idea really appeals to me. There are no scales in space, yo.
5. Best-selling authoress. Fiction, probably. And I would have some romantic nom de plume, a mysterious photo on the back cover with heavily-made-up eyes, and legions of people wondering who I really am and where do I get my amazing inspiration. Also, I would have an adorable cottage in some remote scenic area where I hole myself to do my writing. And someone to clean up after me, too.
Monday, October 27, 2008
random updates: the day-before edition
It's official: tomorrow is my first day back to work. Am I looking forward to it? Yes. Am I dreading it? Yes. Right now as I type this, I am watching Aidan be unbelievably cute, something he does more and more each day... but I am also eager to hang out with adults, help other people, and earn a paycheck again. Because, you know, being broke? Le suck. But I am so, so going to miss my lil' peanut.
I bought a journal. I realized that what I post for you is maybe 1-2 percent of what my life encompasses, and some things are just not fit for publication, yo. So with the idea that only I read my journal - this could be tricky in a house that now contains children - I am reclaiming a bit of my teenagerhood and keeping a diary.
I started a Monday series, and once again, I am behind on it. This is not the first time this has happened. I realized that some of the stories from when I lived with Katie were actually much funnier if you were there when it happened. Maybe it's a deficit on my storytelling part, too, but I'm having a hard time really recapturing just how funny some of our hijinks were. So, this week's edition might be late.
Is this election OVER already? Sheesh.
Thanks to Kelly, every time I pass a Starbucks, I want to pull in and order a gallon of their salted caramel hot chocolate. It is seriously, sinfully, unbelievably yummy. And if you buy me one, well... there's no telling how far and wide my gratitude will reach.
I bought a journal. I realized that what I post for you is maybe 1-2 percent of what my life encompasses, and some things are just not fit for publication, yo. So with the idea that only I read my journal - this could be tricky in a house that now contains children - I am reclaiming a bit of my teenagerhood and keeping a diary.
I started a Monday series, and once again, I am behind on it. This is not the first time this has happened. I realized that some of the stories from when I lived with Katie were actually much funnier if you were there when it happened. Maybe it's a deficit on my storytelling part, too, but I'm having a hard time really recapturing just how funny some of our hijinks were. So, this week's edition might be late.
Is this election OVER already? Sheesh.
Thanks to Kelly, every time I pass a Starbucks, I want to pull in and order a gallon of their salted caramel hot chocolate. It is seriously, sinfully, unbelievably yummy. And if you buy me one, well... there's no telling how far and wide my gratitude will reach.
Friday, October 24, 2008
frustrated: the diaper edition
Okay, so I tried the Thirsties all-in-one diapers my brother bought for Aidan. And they leaked. So I washed them as recommended, hot water, additive-free detergent (and only about 1/4 the normal amount), made sure they were super dry from the dryer. I tried them again. LEAK.
I re-did the whole process. Washing, drying, praying. STILL LEAKED.
And now I am beyond frustrated and wondering out loud to any of my cloth diapering mommy friends: what am I missing or doing wrong? Why are these diapers oozing out pee the minute Aidan pees? It's like it all wicks out to the legs and the top of his butt. The diaper looks like it fits right. I don't use fabric softeners or anything else in the laundry with them.
Grrrr. Stupid diapers.
Any suggestions, moms? Besides going back to my trusty, disposable, yet earth-stabbing Pampers?
I re-did the whole process. Washing, drying, praying. STILL LEAKED.
And now I am beyond frustrated and wondering out loud to any of my cloth diapering mommy friends: what am I missing or doing wrong? Why are these diapers oozing out pee the minute Aidan pees? It's like it all wicks out to the legs and the top of his butt. The diaper looks like it fits right. I don't use fabric softeners or anything else in the laundry with them.
Grrrr. Stupid diapers.
Any suggestions, moms? Besides going back to my trusty, disposable, yet earth-stabbing Pampers?
five ways I am my father's daughter
Another idea shamelessly nicked from Kelly so that I can survive NaBloPoMo next month...
1. I was disappointed to find out that there was only Baby Mozart and Baby Bach in the Baby Einstein DVD series, and that there was no Baby R. Strauss, Baby Saint-Saens, or Baby Vaughn-Williams.
2. I am a champion napper. True naps are those that are at least three hours long and do not involve alarm clocks or other sleep-interrupting devices.
3. The burnt part is the best part of the food. Same deal with crusts and caramelized things.
4. There are few things better than making other people laugh. Or entrancing them by your performance.
5. Taking long drives in pensive, thoughtful silence is a great way to travel. Really. Talking just interrupts the excellent daydreaming.
1. I was disappointed to find out that there was only Baby Mozart and Baby Bach in the Baby Einstein DVD series, and that there was no Baby R. Strauss, Baby Saint-Saens, or Baby Vaughn-Williams.
2. I am a champion napper. True naps are those that are at least three hours long and do not involve alarm clocks or other sleep-interrupting devices.
3. The burnt part is the best part of the food. Same deal with crusts and caramelized things.
4. There are few things better than making other people laugh. Or entrancing them by your performance.
5. Taking long drives in pensive, thoughtful silence is a great way to travel. Really. Talking just interrupts the excellent daydreaming.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
adventures in poo
My brother Don is all about being ecologically friendly. He is even more all about spoiling his nephew. And when he gets to combine the two, well, there's no stopping that man.
Long after I'd thrown my hands up and said that cloth diapering was too hard, not for me, etc., he shows up to babysit Aidan with three cloth diapers. Not the traditional squares of cloth you have to fold and do all sorts of crazy maneuvering with (but they make AWESOME burp cloths, yo), but these babies:
Three. A red, a white, and a blue. (Yes, he's quite patriotic.)
These are like disposables, except instead of folding them and stuffing them down the diaper genie, you rinse off the poo and wash them in the washing machine. Aidan is at that wonderful point - thank you, formula - where his poo is mostly solid, so it's pretty easy to take care of. They even make these liner things where you put it in the diaper, the baby poos, and you just whisk the liner (and accompanying poo) away into the toilet.
I got frustrated the last time I tried all this, though, but I decided to give it another shot, just trying out the three Don got us. I put the red one on Aidan first. SO CUTE. (No, I forgot to take a picture. Sorry.) But then three hours later, when it was time to change him again, he had a huge wet spot up the back of his pajamas. Uh, turns out I'd forgotten to wash the diaper first so it can actually absorb stuff and not just transfer it out of the diaper.
I was tempted to take the pee flood as a bad sign that I should not do this. But no, I will persist. I love disposables but those things are getting expensive, so for economy's sake, at least, I'm giving it another shot. You know, so I can stop stabbing the earth. And my wallet.
I'll let you know how it goes...
Long after I'd thrown my hands up and said that cloth diapering was too hard, not for me, etc., he shows up to babysit Aidan with three cloth diapers. Not the traditional squares of cloth you have to fold and do all sorts of crazy maneuvering with (but they make AWESOME burp cloths, yo), but these babies:
Three. A red, a white, and a blue. (Yes, he's quite patriotic.)
These are like disposables, except instead of folding them and stuffing them down the diaper genie, you rinse off the poo and wash them in the washing machine. Aidan is at that wonderful point - thank you, formula - where his poo is mostly solid, so it's pretty easy to take care of. They even make these liner things where you put it in the diaper, the baby poos, and you just whisk the liner (and accompanying poo) away into the toilet.
I got frustrated the last time I tried all this, though, but I decided to give it another shot, just trying out the three Don got us. I put the red one on Aidan first. SO CUTE. (No, I forgot to take a picture. Sorry.) But then three hours later, when it was time to change him again, he had a huge wet spot up the back of his pajamas. Uh, turns out I'd forgotten to wash the diaper first so it can actually absorb stuff and not just transfer it out of the diaper.
I was tempted to take the pee flood as a bad sign that I should not do this. But no, I will persist. I love disposables but those things are getting expensive, so for economy's sake, at least, I'm giving it another shot. You know, so I can stop stabbing the earth. And my wallet.
I'll let you know how it goes...
Monday, October 20, 2008
the chronicles of slavia, part one
I used to live in a suburb of Orlando called Oviedo, in a little enclave of Oviedo called Slavia. Sounds exotic, but Slavia was pretty much a couple of streets: one that had some farms and a 70-year-old house with "SLAVIA" painted in big letters in front, and another that had a Christian school, a plant nursery, and an apartment complex, where I lived with my friend Katie. I've known Katie for over 13 years now, and she's still one of my best friends. However, we only lived in Slavia a couple of years together before she moved out to get married and I moved out to (unknowingly) meet my future husband one month later.
But we collected many a tale while we were there, and since I'm staring down the face of another yearly installment of NaBloPoMo next month, I thought I'd attempt another Monday regular feature: The Chronicles of Slavia.
Part One: The Geezer, The Survivor, and The Kamikaze Kid
Katie and I ended up with three goldfish one day. My memory is hazy as to how we ended up with three goldfish (Katie, I know you're reading, help me out here!), but there we were, two women with three goldfish.
Little did we know we truly had our hands full.
Things started out positive enough. We had three very cute goldfish. They were orange, they were little, they swam around in circles. We needed to name them. Being a Disney fan, I suggested that two of them be named "Nutsy" and "Trigger", in honor of the two goofball vultures from Disney's Robin Hood.
For whatever reason, we never came to the obvious conclusion of naming the third fish "Sheriff". Or any other Robin Hood-related name, and there were many of those options, too: Little John, Marian, Sir Hiss, Prince John, Friar Tuck. Instead, Katie's future-husband-then-boyfriend Kyle thought we ought to name the third goldfish Peter O'Toole.
Yes. PETER O'TOOLE.
Kyle thought it was a funny name. He thought it sounded like a porno star's name. And I can kinda give him that one, but now I'm wondering, doesn't Prince John - or, you could be all deep and paradoxical, Little John - qualify for that honor, too?
No. Not as much as PETER O'TOOLE.
All arguments about how Peter O'Toole, the human one (Kyle is now laughing), the non-porn-star one, was in fact SIR Peter O'Toole (even harder laughter - porn star with British accent visions) and was also in fact a very respected, decorated thespian (hysterics at this point - I gave up) with a long line of theatrical achievements (continued hysterics) were promptly ignored. And the laughter proved to be very contagious, so in the end, our third fish inherited the dubious honor of being named Peter O'Toole. It was also decreed that when referring to him, this fish would always be called by his full name, Peter O'Toole, because it was funnier that way.
Secretly, I called him Pete. I think he respected me for that.
We had Nutsy, Trigger, and Peter O'Toole in their separate little bowls, swimming around contentedly. In fact, for a while there, we couldn't remember which fish we'd named what, because they all looked the same after about ten minutes. And anyway, we also figured they would only live about a week, because our prior collective track records with fish were not terribly impressive.
A week later, they were still alive. Go figure.
Not too long after we started congratulating ourselves on our impressive fish-raising skillz, we had a floater. One of the fish had moved on to bigger and better vistas. We still didn't remember which name went with what fish, but we concluded that it must have been Peter O'Toole: being the elderly thespian (*snort, giggle*) that he was, he would probably be the first to kick the fishbowl. Poor Peter (*chortle*). Down the Porcelain Express he went.
Nutsy and Trigger continued to thrive. Or at least, they didn't die. "Thriving" and "not dying" look pretty much the same when you're a fish.
Eventually, it got into our heads that perhaps Nutsy and Trigger were lonely, and maybe they should share a bowl. Nutsy and Trigger promptly became roommates, another little bowl was emptied and cleaned, and there was much swimming in circles.
We thought they might be a bit crowded, so a shallow floating-candle bowl was cleaned and the brothers transferred to a new home. They swam in more circles. They continued to, er, thrive, long past our expectations. We congratulated ourselves more. They swam in more circles. A gripping life we led, no?
Little did we know the trouble that lay ahead.
We found out that perhaps there was trouble in paradise, and that maybe all those swam circles were, in fact, a desperate cry for help. We thought they were happy, but I guess we were wrong, or at least half wrong, because one morning, I stumbled out of bed, out to the living room to feed Nutsy and Trigger, and there swam Nutsy, solo, in the bowl. I blinked a few times before it occurred to me to look around for Trigger, that it was improbable that Nutsy devoured his own kin. And there was Trigger, still in the hush of death, lying on the carpet. Trigger had jumped to his death, right out of his shallow little fish condominium.
Here's where I show my true colors: I left him there. I did. I was traumatized, I didn't know how to get him off the floor, and it was really early in the morning and I just couldn't handle it. Yes, it's true: I left him there and went back into my room and pretended I never saw it all. Because, you know, ignoring something will always make it go away.
Twenty minutes later, I hear Katie come out of her room. Yes, that's right! I left Trigger there for her to find, okay? Go ahead and judge me! Argh!
So, okay, Katie came out of her room, and I hear her go, "Uh-oh." And she comes and gets me out of my room to see the carnage, and I was all wow! and surprised and I-never-thought-this-would-happen-how-sad. And even worse than me leaving him there the first time, both of us stand over him and just sort of stare at him. We then argue over who's going to be the brave one: "You pick him up." "No, YOU pick him up. This is creepy." "Hey, this is creepy for me, too - YOU do it."
And we continued on like this for several moments... and then we saw it: the wiggle. Trigger MOVED.
We both gasped. We continued to argue, more fervently now, over who would pick him up and put him back in the fishbowl (instead of the toilet). I think eventually Katie - clearly the better roommate, be quiet, okay? - picked him up and dropped him back into the bowl.
It was pathetic. Truly pathetic.
First, he wasn't quite dead. Dead fish are usually upside down or completely on their sides, and fish who are not dead are upright, swimming vigorously. Trigger, however, was positioned at a 45-degree angle. Not quite dead, not quite alive. He waved his fins every couple of seconds in a futile effort to move his body around, only he never worked up enough force to actually do so. He just sort of floated there at that weird angle.
Second, he was this ghastly grayish-orange color, instead of the bright orange he used to be. A piece of fuzz from the carpet stuck to his gills. And his eyes sort of bugged out, more than usual.
The worst part, though, was Nutsy. Imagine you're swimming around at home, minding your own business, occasionally stopping to eat the food that magically falls from above, and then your roommate leaps to his death in front of your eyes. Only maybe you weren't paying full attention and just thought he'd gone out for some potato chips or something, and just as you were thinking, man, he's been gone for a while... he drops back in, half-dead, a strange color, permanently tilted, with unnatural fuzz stuck to his sides. You would probably be swimming around frantically, freaking out, much like Nutsy. We were convinced that he would make a similar kamikaze leap, he was so spazzed out. But there wasn't anything we could do: we both had to leave for work. We mentally prepared ourselves to come home to one, possibly two, dead fish. It was a miracle that Trigger had any life left in him after at least twenty minutes outside of the water, and we didn't want to press our luck by hoping for recovery. We left the apartment.
We came back about the same time that night, and we were STUNNED: Both fish were still there. Nutsy had not leapt to his death. And Trigger was not only alive, but he was swimming around just as vigorously as before that morning's death leap. He was still a little pale, and the carpet piece was still stuck to his side, but there he was, quite alive. We were stunned.
And alive he stayed, along with Nutsy, for several more months, in fact. We moved them to a special fish tank, complete with a roof and a water filter and some fake fish habitat props. They thrived.
They continued to thrive after Katie and I moved out when she married Kyle, the infamous name suggester previously mentioned. They came in their fish tank with me to a different apartment, kept swimming around contentedly. They met Jason. We got engaged (Jason and I, not the fish and I). Eventually, they hit the goldfish jackpot and retired to a friend's fish pond, where they tripled in size and lived for another year before joining Pete(r O'Toole) in fish heaven.
Funny enough, even when he was at his biggest size, Trigger never regained his full color back. These are the scars we must bear, I suppose.
RIP, Pete, Nutsy, and Trigger. I hope heaven is deep, well-aerated, and full of floating food bits for you.
But we collected many a tale while we were there, and since I'm staring down the face of another yearly installment of NaBloPoMo next month, I thought I'd attempt another Monday regular feature: The Chronicles of Slavia.
Part One: The Geezer, The Survivor, and The Kamikaze Kid
Katie and I ended up with three goldfish one day. My memory is hazy as to how we ended up with three goldfish (Katie, I know you're reading, help me out here!), but there we were, two women with three goldfish.
Little did we know we truly had our hands full.
Things started out positive enough. We had three very cute goldfish. They were orange, they were little, they swam around in circles. We needed to name them. Being a Disney fan, I suggested that two of them be named "Nutsy" and "Trigger", in honor of the two goofball vultures from Disney's Robin Hood.
For whatever reason, we never came to the obvious conclusion of naming the third fish "Sheriff". Or any other Robin Hood-related name, and there were many of those options, too: Little John, Marian, Sir Hiss, Prince John, Friar Tuck. Instead, Katie's future-husband-then-boyfriend Kyle thought we ought to name the third goldfish Peter O'Toole.
Yes. PETER O'TOOLE.
Kyle thought it was a funny name. He thought it sounded like a porno star's name. And I can kinda give him that one, but now I'm wondering, doesn't Prince John - or, you could be all deep and paradoxical, Little John - qualify for that honor, too?
No. Not as much as PETER O'TOOLE.
All arguments about how Peter O'Toole, the human one (Kyle is now laughing), the non-porn-star one, was in fact SIR Peter O'Toole (even harder laughter - porn star with British accent visions) and was also in fact a very respected, decorated thespian (hysterics at this point - I gave up) with a long line of theatrical achievements (continued hysterics) were promptly ignored. And the laughter proved to be very contagious, so in the end, our third fish inherited the dubious honor of being named Peter O'Toole. It was also decreed that when referring to him, this fish would always be called by his full name, Peter O'Toole, because it was funnier that way.
Secretly, I called him Pete. I think he respected me for that.
We had Nutsy, Trigger, and Peter O'Toole in their separate little bowls, swimming around contentedly. In fact, for a while there, we couldn't remember which fish we'd named what, because they all looked the same after about ten minutes. And anyway, we also figured they would only live about a week, because our prior collective track records with fish were not terribly impressive.
A week later, they were still alive. Go figure.
Not too long after we started congratulating ourselves on our impressive fish-raising skillz, we had a floater. One of the fish had moved on to bigger and better vistas. We still didn't remember which name went with what fish, but we concluded that it must have been Peter O'Toole: being the elderly thespian (*snort, giggle*) that he was, he would probably be the first to kick the fishbowl. Poor Peter (*chortle*). Down the Porcelain Express he went.
Nutsy and Trigger continued to thrive. Or at least, they didn't die. "Thriving" and "not dying" look pretty much the same when you're a fish.
Eventually, it got into our heads that perhaps Nutsy and Trigger were lonely, and maybe they should share a bowl. Nutsy and Trigger promptly became roommates, another little bowl was emptied and cleaned, and there was much swimming in circles.
We thought they might be a bit crowded, so a shallow floating-candle bowl was cleaned and the brothers transferred to a new home. They swam in more circles. They continued to, er, thrive, long past our expectations. We congratulated ourselves more. They swam in more circles. A gripping life we led, no?
Little did we know the trouble that lay ahead.
We found out that perhaps there was trouble in paradise, and that maybe all those swam circles were, in fact, a desperate cry for help. We thought they were happy, but I guess we were wrong, or at least half wrong, because one morning, I stumbled out of bed, out to the living room to feed Nutsy and Trigger, and there swam Nutsy, solo, in the bowl. I blinked a few times before it occurred to me to look around for Trigger, that it was improbable that Nutsy devoured his own kin. And there was Trigger, still in the hush of death, lying on the carpet. Trigger had jumped to his death, right out of his shallow little fish condominium.
Here's where I show my true colors: I left him there. I did. I was traumatized, I didn't know how to get him off the floor, and it was really early in the morning and I just couldn't handle it. Yes, it's true: I left him there and went back into my room and pretended I never saw it all. Because, you know, ignoring something will always make it go away.
Twenty minutes later, I hear Katie come out of her room. Yes, that's right! I left Trigger there for her to find, okay? Go ahead and judge me! Argh!
So, okay, Katie came out of her room, and I hear her go, "Uh-oh." And she comes and gets me out of my room to see the carnage, and I was all wow! and surprised and I-never-thought-this-would-happen-how-sad. And even worse than me leaving him there the first time, both of us stand over him and just sort of stare at him. We then argue over who's going to be the brave one: "You pick him up." "No, YOU pick him up. This is creepy." "Hey, this is creepy for me, too - YOU do it."
And we continued on like this for several moments... and then we saw it: the wiggle. Trigger MOVED.
We both gasped. We continued to argue, more fervently now, over who would pick him up and put him back in the fishbowl (instead of the toilet). I think eventually Katie - clearly the better roommate, be quiet, okay? - picked him up and dropped him back into the bowl.
It was pathetic. Truly pathetic.
First, he wasn't quite dead. Dead fish are usually upside down or completely on their sides, and fish who are not dead are upright, swimming vigorously. Trigger, however, was positioned at a 45-degree angle. Not quite dead, not quite alive. He waved his fins every couple of seconds in a futile effort to move his body around, only he never worked up enough force to actually do so. He just sort of floated there at that weird angle.
Second, he was this ghastly grayish-orange color, instead of the bright orange he used to be. A piece of fuzz from the carpet stuck to his gills. And his eyes sort of bugged out, more than usual.
The worst part, though, was Nutsy. Imagine you're swimming around at home, minding your own business, occasionally stopping to eat the food that magically falls from above, and then your roommate leaps to his death in front of your eyes. Only maybe you weren't paying full attention and just thought he'd gone out for some potato chips or something, and just as you were thinking, man, he's been gone for a while... he drops back in, half-dead, a strange color, permanently tilted, with unnatural fuzz stuck to his sides. You would probably be swimming around frantically, freaking out, much like Nutsy. We were convinced that he would make a similar kamikaze leap, he was so spazzed out. But there wasn't anything we could do: we both had to leave for work. We mentally prepared ourselves to come home to one, possibly two, dead fish. It was a miracle that Trigger had any life left in him after at least twenty minutes outside of the water, and we didn't want to press our luck by hoping for recovery. We left the apartment.
We came back about the same time that night, and we were STUNNED: Both fish were still there. Nutsy had not leapt to his death. And Trigger was not only alive, but he was swimming around just as vigorously as before that morning's death leap. He was still a little pale, and the carpet piece was still stuck to his side, but there he was, quite alive. We were stunned.
And alive he stayed, along with Nutsy, for several more months, in fact. We moved them to a special fish tank, complete with a roof and a water filter and some fake fish habitat props. They thrived.
They continued to thrive after Katie and I moved out when she married Kyle, the infamous name suggester previously mentioned. They came in their fish tank with me to a different apartment, kept swimming around contentedly. They met Jason. We got engaged (Jason and I, not the fish and I). Eventually, they hit the goldfish jackpot and retired to a friend's fish pond, where they tripled in size and lived for another year before joining Pete(r O'Toole) in fish heaven.
Funny enough, even when he was at his biggest size, Trigger never regained his full color back. These are the scars we must bear, I suppose.
RIP, Pete, Nutsy, and Trigger. I hope heaven is deep, well-aerated, and full of floating food bits for you.
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