Baby fishes are called fry....

So a couple of weeks ago Tall Man bought fishes from the local Store-of-Satan.

They were all diseased.

Seriously. Less than a week after pouring them into our tank, all of them and the 3 other fish we had were dead.

Belly up.

Flushed.

The offspring have been upset about this. Not the dead fish, mind you. They thought that was fun. No, they're upset about the empty tank.

I mean, what's the point of having an aquarium if all that's in it are a couple of snails, after all?

So we went back to Store-of-Satan this week to get more fish. HA! In one tank alone I counted at least twenty (2-0) little ickthy-corpses. So we negotiated with the rather demanding small one and purchased an incredibly ugly multi-fluorescent colored fish-rock-house-thing and a fake shark with 2 fish to be purchased later. A trip to the real pet store was planned.

I was supposed to take them to the pet store tonight. I did my research. Found some hearty breeds online that I wanted to ask about. Planned on asking what I should do with the aquarium to make sure that it's no longer a seething cesspool of floating death. Things like that. But today Tall Man's work was called off due to power outage and he decided to relieve me of this responsibility (and likely SHUT THE KIDS UP ABOUT IT while he was at it).

So off they go to the pet store...tra la la la la...

Easy enough mission...talk to nice people...pick out fish (pregnant ones!!) go to front counter...wait for man in front of line to write check for $75 for a fancy-schmancy lid to a huge muther-fucking aquarium....step past glass lid which he's left on the floor while he goes to get his vehicle...let smallest child free for 22.3 seconds so check for $6.41 can be written...

Wait...did I just say let smallest child free?

Smallest child? The one who's goal in life is (or will be as soon as she finds out that it exists) climbing Mt. Everest?

Let smallest child free near the glass on the floor?

Yes.

Yes, I do believe that I just said that.

So we now have two fish which cost $86.

I'm thinking of naming one of them Eighty and the other Six.

Or maybe not.

Divorce court is expensive.

The Funeral

A few days ago I was flipping channels and saw something that caught my attentioin. A little girl, maybe 5 years old was sitting in front of a toilet, holding a large goldfish. Another little girl, maybe 7, was sitting behind her, next to the sink, holding a Bible and reading the 23rd Psalm.

The younger sister was sobbing; the long, hard gut-wrenching keening that I normally associate with Irish wakes or black Baptist funerals. "I love you Goldie. I'll miss you." Then she put the fish into the bowl and flushed the toiled.

And immediately reached into the bowl and grabbed the fish back out.

"I CAN'T DO IT!!! SOB! SOB! SOB! SOB!"

There was a jump cut and the younger sister was now sitting next to the sink, holding the Bible. The older sister was sitting in front of the toilet, holding the fish and...I kid you not people...eulogizing the fish.

"You were a good fish Goldie. We grew to love you a great deal in the week that we had you." (WEEK?!?!?) "You always swam around your tank and ate when we fed you. We loved you so much and will miss you a lot."

I'm sure more happened after this, including the actual interrment of the fish into the sewer system, but I wasn't paying attention. I wasn't paying attention because my olderest, who was watching the service with rapt attention turned to me and said, "That little girl is really upset that her goldfish died, isn't she."

"Yes, honey," I said. "She is."

And I couldn't help but think back a mere two days when (again, not kidding) all four of the fish that we had purchased less than a week before had gone belly-up in our fish tank.

My darling husband, Tall Guy, had taken the offspring to the store and purchased 2 snails, a 2-inch algae-eater fish (I dunno what their scientific names are, but we always name them "Climb" because they cling to the sides of the tanks), and 3 feeder goldfish...one of whom was named "Patch" because he only had one eye and the other two of whom were named "Dorothy". Thank you Elmo, you annoying little muppet. Thanks to that little red bastard, every goldfish in this country owned by somebody younger than 6 is named Dorothy. Grrr.

Anyway, the snails are doing just fine, but about 5 days after we got them, all 4 of the fish were dead. Patch and the Dorothies (sounds like a '60s pop group, no?) were floating and Climb was just laying on his back on the bottom of the tank. So I get the long tongs that we use for grilling and a paper cup and proceed to pull first Patch and then the Dorothies out of the tank.

Meanwhile, both offspring (almost 3 and almost 5) are watching and I'm explaining the whole circle of life thing to them. One of our dogs passed away earlier this year so we've had the "heaven talk". They're doing just fine. Saying goodbye to each fish as I pull it out. Finally, I'm almost a done and I reach into the tank for Climb and put him into the cup.

At which point he starts to thrash about and leaps out of the cup back into the tank. And immediately sinks to the bottom of the tank and lays on his back. How do my darling children take this, you may ask? Well....

I look over to the sight of them jumping and clapping gleefully. "Make him do it again, Mommy! Do it again!!!!"

Damn White Guy

I promised ED that I would write about the goldfish, but that's going to have to take a back seat because I have to rant.

So I like figure skating. I'm not a true fanatic. I can't identify a triple axle on sight and I don't even know how to spell sow-cow, let alone which edge you land on when doing it, but I like the spinny-jumpy things and the costumes and the dancing...especially during Olympic season.

Tonight was supposed to be when ESPN2 was airing the National Finals (aka the Olypic trials) for Ice Dancing (did everybody catch the DANCING part of that...and how I like the DANCING part of figure skating?) and I was planning to stay up late to watch. 10:30 PM rolls around and there's a basketball game on. Boston v. Philadelphia.

In overtime.

With 1:27 left on the clock.

No problem, I say to myself. I'll just flip to another channel and come back in about 15 minutes & I'll watch the sport that I like.

10:45 PM. Still Boston v. Philadelphia. Still in overtime. I flip back to the show I was watching.

11:00 PM Still Boston v. Philadelphia. Double overtime. I decide to call Tall Guy at work and talk to him for 20 minutes.

11:20 PM Hang up with Tall Guy. Still Boston v. Philadelphia. Boston up by 1 with 20 seconds on the clock. I half watch the TV while reading.

11:29 PM Boston 121 Philadelphia 118. 0.2 seconds left on the clock.

YAY!!! Soon I will be able to watch the figure skating. I will see the beautiful (and frequently tacky) costumes and I will be absorbed by the fantastic footwork!!!

Then some white guy (?!?!?!?!?) from Philadelphia makes a three point shot with 0.2 seconds left to go.

Damn white guy.

New Year's Eve

It was supposed to be a quiet night. Just me & the Tall Guy watching Serenity with our friend Eternal Damnation.

Then another friend called & asked what we were doing so we invited her over. And two more friends. And two more. So we ended up having a party.

The party didn't start off so well, though. A few days before I had recieved an email from a good friend asking if I thought that she was a talented writer and artist. That was it. Nothing else. The tone of the email bothered me--especially since it was written at 3-something in the morning. She has a lot of friends who go out of their way to tear her down and hurt her & I thought that had happened. I replied yes, but that she would never be a Picasso or Anne McCaffery and that it didn't matter because she had enough talent to find it fun and her friends and professors enjoyed her work also.

I still don't know what happened, but when she arrived at the party I asked how she was doing and what happened. She replied that she was glad to know how I felt and that she would never ask me the question again because she disagrees with my definition of talent. She believes that talent and skill are the same thing and that, barring physical or menal disability, everybody can reach the same level of acheivement if they only work hard enough at it.

Another woman who is the band director at one of our highly disadvantaged urban schools, chimed in that the level of possible acheivement is determined by the first 5 years of life. Which surprizes me because that would make her job futile. Her job is to take these kids who have the deck stacked against them (and from her stories, a lot of them are playing with a really, really shitty hand) and unlock their potential. And she does it. She takes these kids and inspires, trains, pushes and drags them to the point where they are quite possibly the best band in the area...even when compared to the very best funded programs around who have kids with every advantage offered to humans.

All people are not created equal. Even with the same opportunities and training, not everybody is going to achieve the same level of performance. Some people are smarter than others. Some people are stronger, faster, have perfect pitch, can see the world more clearly or differently. Some people have stories that attack them and won't let go until they've been written down. Some people have characters speak to them in their heads (not voices, people....characters). Some people can memorize huge amounts of text and scientific names.

Hell--it's physiological. They've established differences in the muscle types of long-distance runners and sprinters. This is not to say that people with the long-distance muscles can't sprint, but it does mean that they are at a disadvantage and no matter how hard they work they will never beat somebody with the sprinter muscles who works just as hard.

People need to find what they're good at...and what they like to do...and work at it as hard as they want to acheive the desired level of success. I love music. But I have limitations. I have a great singing voice, but I cannot separate parts. I don't hear the music that way. I spent a year as a music major...working and struggling and having my self-esteem shit on...before I figured it out. Does this mean that I can't sing? Does it mean that I'm useless in a choir? No. I'm a valuable member of most choirs, but I will never...I repeat, NEVER, be a professional. I do not have the level of talent that it would take to get me there.

My friend who started this whole conversation would say that I just don't want it badly enough. Perhaps this is true, but there are things that I am talented at...that don't take so much work that it feels like I'm beating my head against the wall to make the smallest improvement. I chose to spend my time focusing on those things. This is what I mean by talent. Talent does exist. Talent is not the same as skill. There are artists in every field and craftsmen in every field.

After about 20 minutes of this conversation in which nobody's mind was changed--and I'd love to have people weigh in on this subject--E.D. offered to flash the room to disrupt the negative energy. That was when Tall Guy and I started to wrangle our children into their beds and everybody else settled in to actually watch Serenity.

Eternal Damnation has done a great job of recapping the rest of the night, so wander over to read about the fun part.