thebeckybug

Every time I look at the fish tank as of late I cringe and squint and prepare myself for the worst. This fish, my favorite fish, my most lovely Coral Beauty Angel Fish (seriously, that’s the scientific name.) Well, she died. More specifically, something ate her. Starting with her tail.

One day her tail was torn up, and then the next day it was her fins, and then she looked like she was getting better, then worse, then even way worse. Each day I would watch her, holding back the tears, digging deep inside my soul to will her to get better. I even fed her the specified “Angel and Butterfly frozen fish entree” to make sure she was getting the necessary nutrition for a speedy recovery. And then she disappeared. And I cried. And I have been forgetting to feed the fish this past week. I’m pretty certain this is called denial. And it’s not just a river in Egypt. Denial is like forgetting to feed the remaining fish in your tank because your favorite one of them died.

I finally got around to a non-bleary-eyed look at the tank today. As I reached my hand into the water to clean it up, a fish bit me. Let me rephrase that: My clownfish took a bite out of the back of my hand.

Hey Clownfish! There is a specific reason I do not keep piranhas stocked in my tank! Mr. Bitey kept circling my hand, threatening another attack. I swished my pointer finger around in the water threatening a ride down the porcelain express should he ever do that again!

Then the whole world started whirling around when it occured to me who ate my beloved angelfish. The. Mister. Bitey. Himself. (The Mrs. Bitey may have helped judging by the way she was sneakily swimming.) This enraged me to no end as the camera zoomed in and the sequence of flash backs started playing in my head. Dang clownfish, who have been the downfall of many an uninhabited anemone. Who kill many of my beautiful corals because they insist on making homes in them. Swishing their little fishey selves all over the colorful corals until they just don’t bloom anymore, then moving onto the next. The same clownfish that have eaten 2 pair of flasher fin fish and a goby.

Not to mention all the other fish who don’t make it past the clownfish misconception of a welcome to the tank party. Think of the volcano scene in Finding Nemo except for the part where they all become friends at the end. In my tank the newbies get bugged and nipped and finally eaten. Sometimes I manage to save them from impending doom.

Now I’m taking it into my own hands. The clownfish apparently have a misconception about who rules the house, much less the tank. I will not be bugged into submission and I will not be eaten alive by my clownfish. Rather, the other way around. Sushi, anyone?

No, I will not be flushing my clown fish down the toilet either. I will be selling them to the fish store and re-stocking the fish inhabitants of my tank this weekend. After I feed them some specialized frozen Angelfish and Butterfly Frozen Entree.

The boyfriend had a birthday this week, and on his wish list was a new set of golf clubs. I was determined to not contribute to this particular gift for fear of screwing it up … until I got roped into accompanying him to Golfsmith. And those are always the famous last words in our relationship: until I got roped into accompanying him/her to someplace (see IKEA trip.) My definition of roped in being that The Domain is close to Golfsmith and one cannot possibly miss a trip there.

I paid my dues, was a good, uninterested girlfriend during our time in Golfsmith. I discreetly enticed him to make a purchase ASAP and we got out of there with a full new set of clubs within an hour (awesome!)

He understandably wanted to try out his new clubs at the driving range, and after an unsuccessful trip to The Domain, I offered to drop him off at the driving range while I could shop at the nearby Target (see above definition of ‘roped in’ and apply.) For some strange reason, I got out of the car at the driving range. For a stranger reason that I will never understand, I stayed to watch him swing and see how he liked his new clubs. I guess I was overcome with his contagious new-golf-club-excited-energy and actually got interested in what he was doing. So much that I picked a club out of his bag and started swinging. at. an. actual. golf. ball.

And then the earth shattered and fell into a million pieces. You thought that shaking-of-the-entire-house-feeling came from the Indianapolis area, but in fact, it was a result of me making contact with a golf ball with an actual golf club. A driver even.

The last time I picked up a club, it was an old step-father’s and that trip to the driving range nearly resulted in tears. Needless to say, I’ve avoided the g-word as much as possible, ever since. Until this weekend.

The first shot, I admit I got pretty lucky and landed the ball in a place other than where it started between my feet. I started stealing more balls from Carson’s bucket and eventually got the hang of it. At one point, he convinced me he was paying a compliment when he said I could hit it better than his grandma (apparently she has played golf before.) The driving range also proved to me that I needed to go to shopping for a golf glove instead of the intended Target run.

I own a golf glove. I never thought I’d be saying that. My golf glove has accompanied me through 18 holes so far, and has a lot more to look forward to, believe it or not. I truly don’t believe it. I am actually enjoying learning the game, and can’t be more surprised every time I actually make contact with the ball and send it flying through the air.

Guaranteed, I’m still working out how to actually hit the ball on the first try so I can stop lying when I say “no, that was just a practice swing.”

I wake up, my arm itches a very distinct itch. I look down and there’s a little line of bumps along the underside of my arm. I’m hoping, praying it’s chiggers. As I perform a circus act to get a closer look at the inside of my upper arm, I see little red dots inside all the bumps. I have hope! It could be chiggers! I apply some finger nail polish to the area, because the stuff, it’s toxic, and it makes the chiggers go away.

Later in the afternoon, fingernail polish still glossy on my arm, it starts itching. Underneath three layers of Opi Quick-Dry Top Coat, clearly not chiggers. The little red ninnies would not be able to stand the fumes. Maybe a bee or fire ant or something got stuck in my sleeve and bit me repeatedly. Maybe something just scratched me, or I got rug burn on the underside of my upper arm, you know, when I was applying my deodorant wrapped in carpet. I know these wishes are only in vain, for the true cause of my itchy arm is from the depths of itchiness hell, the devil incarnate in plant form … THE POISON IVY.

In case you couldn’t tell, The Poison Ivy tops the list of things I want least to happen to my body. I prefer being hit by an 18-wheeler to being in contact with The Poison Ivy.

As a girl scout, I was trained to tell the difference between poison oak, poison ivy, poison sumac and variegated pothos. I was not allergic to any of these plants and could roll around in any ivy patch as a youngster. I would emerge from a raging pit of ivy, positively identify it as poisonous, and walk away with merely a fond memory of a good romp. Later, I went to college and the poisonous plant knowledge base was replaced with some less applicable knowledge.

Now, I unknowingly get covered in the plant’s oil, apply it liberally all over my body and miss-remember the stuff exists. I call this the idiotic stage.

A few weeks will go by. You heard me. A few weeks, as in, a month. As in, the time it takes you to tell if you’re conceiving a baby. Nothing abnormal, nothing itchy happens for a whole month. I call this the blissful ignorance stage.

And then a rash shows up. During this stage, I cannot do anything to spread the rash, the damage is already done. The rash will merely be showing up wherever I was in contact with the poison ivy, a few weeks ago. Slowly at first. Little red bumps appear then turn into blisters that itch to high heaven. And it gets worse and worse. And it starts showing up in other spots. And then every stray spot on my body gets investigated. Each little spot on my body could give me a hint to whether one poisonous leaf just wisped by one spot on my arm, or if I accidentally performed a sadistic tribal dance, wrapping poisoned vines all over my body. In the latter case, I know to look forward to a month of hellacious body-itching. I call this the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage.

The worst part about the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage is the amount of brain space confiscated by the itching. I find myself unable to do my taxes because the part of my brain that used to be able to fill in forms is replaced by the thought of itching. What used to be an easy task of cooking mac and cheese (the Velveeta kind where all the ingredients come in the box) becomes an inedible dinner of mush because I got distracted with trying not to scratch all the itching. And then I end up hungry and itchy, and it just gets to be too much to handle!

Right now, as I’m not itching this little spot on my under-arm, I am imagining the rash came from a walk I took in the woods about a month ago. Trying to remember what I did a month ago is confiscating my remaining brain space. I’m trying to imagine I did not contract poison ivy in my own back yard when I did some minor yard work about a month ago. I’m trying to imagine it came from a very far away place that I will never visit again.

If the poison ivy is in my back yard, however, I’m doomed. I spent this entire weekend in the back yard, clearing and bagging up brush and miscellaneous vines. Which means, while I am currently suffering from a minor prior encounter with The Poison Ivy, I might just have been having a unknown rendezvous with a whole mass of it this weekend. I might just have spent the whole weekend in the idiotic stage. Which puts me in the blissful ignorance stage for the next month. Except right now it’s more like a horrifying fear of the hopeless utter confusion and torture stage.

There’s nothing I can do right now, I took a shower and washed all my clothes. The damage is done, and my brain is rotting from all the thinking about not itching, and remembering what I did, and fearing for the future, and promises to not even look at the back yard ever again.

I’ve had the “If I Had a Hammer” song stuck in my head for 3 days now. I don’t know if I’m more disturbed about:

1) the repeating song, repeating and reapeating in my head, repetitively

2) the fact that I kinda like this song circulating round and round in my head for 3 days (at least it’s cheerful, right)

3) the subsequent coke commercials that pop into my head, subversively creating a craving for the addictive red-canned substance, urging me to storm every soda fountain I gaze upon

4) propaganda and marketing really have an effect on me

We’re watching Dancing With the Stars on tivo when Marlee Matlin’s turn comes up.

Jacob asks me, “Why is he doing that thing with his hands?” Referring of course, to her translator.

I respond, “She’s deaf.”

“What is deaf?” he continues. This kid. He loves to ask questions. He would like you to think he knows everything, but kinda gives himself away by asking all those questions.

“It means she cannot hear,” I say, as the TV shows a demonstration of what she hears on the dance floor. “Watch the show, they explain everything.”

“She can’t talk?” Jacob proceeds with the questions.

“She can talk, but she can’t hear. The thing he’s doing with his hands is called sign language. If you can’t hear you use hand signals to communicate. She can also read lips. Do you not know these things?”

Jacob responds, “Oh yeah, I do.”

We both get transfixed by the TV. I’m appreciating a rare moment of non-interrogatory-silence.

Jacob breaks the silence.”I thought deaf meant you can’t breathe.” He then tries to demonstrate by holding his breath. I wait a good, quiet moment.

“No, silly if you don’t breathe, you’ll die.”

“Oh, I thought not breathing was called deaf.”

“No, there is a difference between death and deaf. Death means you are dead, deaf means you can’t hear.” I try to enunciate every “th” and “f” very distinctively.

He summarizes, “She can breathe, but she’s deaf. Can she see?”

Sunshine sounds like:

• 2 yr old girl hiccup-laughing
• little girl singing about it being the afternoon
• teeter-totter squeaking under exuberant one-sided bouncing of young one, oblivious the toy is meant for two
• young boy consoling the timid dog, telling her how nice and sweet she is being today
• small gasp from the tot who suddenly hears the birds twittering away

In an interview I saw recently, this awesome lady said she has a no-buy rule about the things she posts on her shopping website. How does she do it? The temptation is grueling!

Here are a few creatures I would love to have grace my home.

Pair Of Quackers Vintage Brass Ducks Geese

by greenhearts $20

Bridging Worlds

by SandraHealy $90

The Decemberists hand screenprinted gigposter

by strawberryluna $75

Inspired by Maggie. I could only come up with 77

1. plant a garden
2. keep 3 houseplants alive
3. throw a dessert party
4. enjoy a beer at a small German brewery
5. make a cheesecake
6. commission a piece of artwork
7. visit the homestead of my ancestors in Moravia
8. purchase a home
9. start a business
10. befriend nomads in Mongolia
11. become proficient at grilling meats
12. shake hands with the people whose work i admire
13. shop at a market in India
14. see Bjork perform in Iceland
15. compete the dog in agility
16. own a home in a different country
17. accumulate a library of home videos
18. have waterfront property
19. take a family portrait in costumes - with all the animals
20. scuba dive off the coast of Indonesia
21. shop locally for produce and meat
22. let the dogs loose on a herd of sheep
23. throw a retirement bash for my mother
24. sew a quilt with my grandmother, one she would not otherwise attempt
25. take over family reunion planning
26. get a teaching certificate
27. start & sustain a club or organization
28. perform in a recital
29. visit a rain forest in South America
30. make and read a book list of 100 books
31. do more charity work
32. learn to sail
33. surf in California
34. purchase and effectively use a nice film camera
35. learn to play the mandolin
36. install a light fixture in the ceiling where there was previously none
37. send more birthday and minor-holiday cards
38. meet the trumpet player in our neighborhood
39. climb the Mayan temples in Mexico
40. see the tulips in Denmark
41. go fly fishing
42. catch a deep-sea fish
43. learn to fire a gun
44. take ballroom dance lessons
45. subscribe to more magazines
46. visit all local historical sites/homes
47. provide funding for a public park
48. have a family ‘art show’ as a fund raiser
49. fill a room with a sea of post-it notes labeling everything
50. have a BBQ with the bums on the street
51. make my dream website
52. see the northern lights
53. watch the herding dogs work in Ireland
54. memorize peoples’ birthdays
55. visit Morocco
56. web-designing with photoshop
57. watch the meteor shower again
58. publish an article in a magazine
59. write down memories of my childhood
60. help my father with his life’s work
61. see snow fall from in hot tub at a log cabin
62. pay off college loans and start a college fund for someone else
63. categorize my library
64. donate enough money to PBS to have my name announced before “… and viewers like you”
65. do a kitchen remodel, paying for any labor with only food and beverage
66. house sit more often
67. maintain a variety of bird houses and feeders
68. only wear clothes that make me feel like i look good
69. take more opportunities to see live music
70. master tiramisu
71. establish a large, regionally specific saltwater reef system
72. produce something to be sold at the farmer’s market
73. grow and harvest a vanilla bean plant
74. plant a tree on monumental occasions
75. develop a roll of film in a darkroom by myself
76. restore a classic car
77. own a moped
78. finish this list and come up with a better #78

We’re walking to the school to collect the kids as we call them (the younger siblings.) I turn to J6 (let’s call him Jacob) and say, “Mmmm, smell this,” as I offer up a handful of a mountain laurel bloom from the tree. It smells like purple fun-dip or grape gum and brings back fond memories of being a kid. I wave him over, pretty certain it will trigger some kinda of sensory connection for him, as well.

Jacob was cautious, wary of what I was trying to torture his nose with. He sniffed it in, and reeled back with a scrunched-up face. He’s at the stage where everything that tastes or smells nice to most people will revolt him to no end. I call this the punk-teenager stage, except he’s only 6. This yummy grape-smelling flower was one of those things. I was still a bit surprised with the scrunch face.

I inquire, “What does it smell like?”

His answer, very definite. “It smells … Jurassic.”

“Jurassic?” I attempt to clarify, “like dinosaurs.”

“Yeah. Jurassic.”

What I learned about my family history during last night’s dinner:

• My great-grandmother played piano at the nursing home. She would help the other elderly residents by wheeling their chairs to wherever they wanted to go. The staff asked her to stop, and she couldn’t understand why.
• My great-aunt was a missionary in South America. Her son had polio because of it.
• My grandmother and her sister shared a bed when they were young and act the same way now toward each other as if it were the case now. However, they currently live a thousand miles away.
• My grandfather likes any food prepared for him by anyone in his family. His exact words are “How did you know this was my favorite?”
• But even more than that, he LOVES coconut cream pie. My Grandmother doesn’t eat it, but makes it for him once a year for his birthday. He would have eaten the whole pie after dinner, but I had a little slice.
• My great-aunt is the most opinionated person I’ve ever known. She only half-heartedly doesn’t mind when you don’t agree with her.
• My great-aunt remembers everything as if it happened yesterday, The War, growing up on a farm in Kansas, and college.
• My paternal side of the family has musical abilities, but no vocal abilities.
• My grandfather loves puppies.