Death by Aquarium

My husband just spent two days buying and preparing a freshwater countertop aquarium for his devoted, loving wife (that would be me). It has all the bells and whistles that a fish could ask for: fake coral in psychedelic colors of green and purple and orange for them to dart in and out of; big fake leafy green plants to play hide and seek in; and real gravel that they can push around with their teeny tiny little snouts (noses?) or whatever that part of a fish is called. I’m no expert. I just find that the bubbling sound of their air supply is soothing and watching the fish play is very calming. I was all prepared to just zen out when I took my hourly roll-call and found that my favorite fish, a plecostomus (I had to google the spelling of that, I admit it) or sucker fish, was missing in action. I had been traumatized earlier in the morning by the poor little translucent fish that had gotten sucked into the air filter and was found smushed up against the inside of the glass tank, half alive. He was about to be saved when he got sucked up again but was supposed to be miraculously spit out into the tank to swim to see another day, but tragically … he was never seen again. His brother searches in vain for him. Thus, I named our new toy “The Death Aquarium”.

Now the gentle Mr. Plecostomus had gone missing. He liked to hang around, looking extremely silly, with his mouth stuck to the glass. I checked everywhere, and was growing increasingly desperate, when my husband assured me that my friend had probably found refuge inside the fake coral. I stood by stoically watching and waiting for him to return, to assure me that all was well. That was when my husband spotted him trapped under part of the coral display. We watched and waited for him to wriggle out, but then slowly realized that his eyes had gone blank. He was, alas, no more. I kept circling back all afternoon to check to see if he was still dead, and he was. It was so sad. Another death in our Death Aquarium. I could see the other fishes packing their bags and demanding to be returned to the pet shop, but my husband turned a blind eye to them. An eye much like the ones in Mr. Plecostomus’ head.

Later, after dinner, my husband called me over excitedly to see the aquarium. There was Mr. Plecostomus, wide mouth firmly stuck to the glass, and appearing to be very much alive. But then, what was that imposter dead fish? Upon closer inspection, we realized that it was just a rock that closely resembled our reinvigorated friend. A rock! I had been prepared to lose sleep over a dead rock.

I still call it our Death Aquarium and continue to take roll-call to be certain that everyone is a fish and not a dead rock. A salty tear dripped from my eye as I thought about Mr. P’s almost untimely death. It is a heavy mantel of responsibility, indeed, to maintain the health of our remaining fish. I will leave that up to my husband as I lack the composure to handle fish emergencies. Long live the fish!

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Has anyone seen the Moon?

Imagine Captain Ahab, telescope in hands, scanning the empty deep blue seas as he desperately searches for the huge, gigantic, impossible-to-miss white whale, Moby. But every time the Captain scans left, Moby is jumping around doing back-flips to the right. The Captain scans right, and now Moby is waving at him from the left, flipping him off … with a flipper. That, my friends, is how I am with my telescope and the Harvest Moon. I see it. You can’t miss it! It is up in the sky, all alone. It is a big, beautiful sphere of brightness in an otherwise blank, pre-dawn sky. And yet, somehow, I cannot locate it with my telescope. And this is Day Two of my embarrassingly inept attempts. I take the telescope off its tripod and try to use it a la Captain Ahab, and his thwarted attempts to find the only blip of white in the vast sea. The difference is that I can SEE the stupid moon! It’s there, right above me and it is saying to me, “Neener, neener, can’t catch me” which is driving me equally as insane as poor Ahab. I catch a glimpse of the glowing orb and then can’t seem to locate it again. Did I mention that this is very frustrating? Why won’t I read the manual for the telescope? Perhaps that has a clue as how to locate stuff in the sky. Or even listen to my husband’s suggestions? No, I want to do this myyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy wayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy. And just when the telescope is settled back onto the tripod and I am madly sweeping the sky, I hear the dreaded sound of “Click click”. The lawn sprinklers are about to pop up! I am not getting wet in my nightie again. I look up at the gorgeous Harvest Moon and realize that perhaps the analogy should be Snoopy and the Red Baron, “Curse you, Harvest Moon: I’ll get you next time!”

UPDATE ** UPDATE **UPDATE ** UPDATE **UPDATE ** UPDATE **UPDATE ** UPDATE **

Third time was the charm! This morning, I had the moon smack-dab in the middle of my telescope lens. I almost cried with joy. It looks as though the Universe uses the Moon for target practice: there are so many craters! Ok, one goal reached; now another set. I want to view Saturn with its rings, and then will I have a story for you!

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Waking up in a Good Mood

Six o’clock A.M. and my dog needed to go outside. I found my flip-flops, remembered (this time) to disarm the alarm, and released the Kraken! I followed him outside and looked up and my breath caught in my throat. Every single star and constellation was visible in the inky black sky; not a hint of light pollution. I was feeling all misty-eyed and, in my head, composing flowery poetry about the touch of heaven above. I gently sat down on one of our cushioned chairs and YIKES! It must have rained last night — I cleverly deduced that from the gigantic puddle that I was now sitting in. My pajamas were soaked and I had a wet butt. I do not like wet butts unless I am in the shower or a bathtub. Now I had to walk back inside, lurching like Frankenstein with a wet diaper. So, it didn’t make sense to dry off, change nightgowns, and crawl back into bed. Too much work, and besides, nothing wakes you up more than splashing your butt into a cold puddle of rainwater.

But it still counted as a good morning because the stars were stunning in their brilliance! Thank you, Freddie my dog, for waking me up early. Good boy.

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Freddie?!

Our puppy, Freddie. Our lil’ bundle of joy. The one warm mammal to always greet me with contagious happiness and love every time I enter the front door. Yes, that puppy. He is skating on very thin ice right now, let me tell you.

It can be expected that puppies will chew on shoes and purses. That is so cliché. Our discerning furball sniffed out my brand new $$ bra to chew up. And pillows. He loves eviscerating pillows, especially $$ ones. My reaction was to shrug my shoulders and shake my head, “He’s just doing what a puppy does.” I couldn’t stay angry with him, anyway. He is too darned cute with those big, brown eyes brimming with remorse. Or hunger. Yes, it’s more likely that he is hungry.

So, we began shutting doors to keep our possessions safe. We shut every single door in the house, which looks a little weird when company comes over. They must think we have a real problem with dust containment. Or we are incredibly slovenly people who must hide our massive piles of dirty laundry behind closed doors.

Anyway, Freddie is growing, as living things are wont to do. And now his not-so-little legs can help him reach up to the countertops. And there are consequences.

Where’s that cork from the bottle of wine? Freddie ate it. Anyone seen my stirring spoon? Oh, you mean the one with the teeth marks all over it? Yup. He has gnawed his way through anything and everything that is left near the kitchen counter’s edge. I have seen what he does to his chew toys and I am certain that he ate the turkey baster because that has completely disappeared. He has an iron tummy.

Yesterday was the last straw. I had pounded this chicken breast into submission when I realized that I was thirsty. My water bottle was in my office, barely a few feet away. I ran to retrieve it, taking mere seconds, and all looked fine upon my return. Freddie was in the same position in his dog bed, and I could see pieces of raw chicken on the chopping board. But my potential chicken schnitzel was gone! And at the exact moment of realization, I hear Freddie LICK HIS CHOPS. Guilty! I stared at him with my mouth hanging open, and he stared right back. I couldn’t believe how sneaky he had been. And fast!! As I said, it had taken place in mere seconds: the dash, the gulp, the rearranging in his bed. He was such a little boogerhead! He knew that he would be in trouble, so he had tried to play it innocent, but it wasn’t going to work this time. The trouble was that all that I had in my arsenal of dog training was to repeat, “Bad dog, Freddie. Very bad dog”. He honestly seemed to understand, and I could tell that he was repentant.

But do you know who immediately had his head on his dad’s lap, begging for more chicken the minute that dinner was served? Well, his name doesn’t rhyme with “stinker”, but it should. Oh, Freddie!

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In a moment of weakness …

I can almost open my linen closet door without setting off an avalanche of rolls of toilet paper. This is a constant reminder of the Great Toilet Paper Debacle of 2020. I recall vividly how I had, at first, refused to play into the mass hysteria: “There’s no more toilet paper in the stores!” I don’t know what triggered this compulsion to stock up on toilet paper. Did we think that a roll of toilet paper would act as a talisman against the virus? Maybe we thought we could use the toilet paper to craft clothing if we couldn’t get to a store. Perhaps we could weaponize the rolls and toss them like little hand grenades at people who invaded our 6 foot cone of protection. You couldn’t escape hearing about it: the news was on the front page; it was the leading story on the nightly news stations. What a crappy situation! I began to doubt my rational thinking that, gee, how much toilet paper did one person need to get through the quarantine? In a moment of weakness, I finally gave in to the freak-out. So, I got on the Walmart website to order up some toilet paper. They were sold out! Every merchant that I could think of was sold out. Although I truly had a sufficient supply, I panicked! Aieeeeeeeeeee!! I need toilet paper!! I must have more toilet paper!! A little light bulb went off in my head, and I headed over to the Office Depot website, where I found a carton of individually wrapped toilet paper at an idiotic price. Oh, baby: I grabbed that sucker up and found that it was back-ordered but (butt?) it would be available in a month. And in exactly one month, a huge carton of eighty-eight individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper was deposited on my front porch. I didn’t think that it should be stored in the garage, because it might attract bugs or rodents or thieves who heard of my treasure and knew what eighty-eight rolls could get on the black market. So, I emptied my linen closet and carefully stacked all the rolls of tp in place of the bed sheets, which were relocated half-hazardly on every shelf in the house. Little did I know that making a bed would turn into a half hour game of hide and seek, because of course, I promptly forgot which closet held which linens. Oh, well, it is still a great way to waste time and burn calories as I roam from room to room.

And now, well over one year later, we have gone through nearly half of the rolls of tp. I still cannot use my linen closet, but I read this cool household hint that recommended storing piles of sheets under your mattress. Isn’t that nifty? It beats having to iron them, which I don’t do, anyway.

So. The moral of the story is … don’t come to my house to visit unless you want to leave with a gift bag filled with individually wrapped rolls of toilet paper.

18

Freddie!

We have a new rescue puppy! He was fostered by family, so he came to us perfectly house-broken (amen!) and totally loveable. He is about 7 months old, mostly black with some very interesting coloring. His chest is white with black brush strokes … sorta looks like a guy from the 70’s with his shirt open, displaying a hairy chest. All Freddie needs is a big gold chain to complete the look.

It took nearly a week to decide upon his name. So for his earliest memories in his new home, it will be of us calling, “Hey, dog!” We went through many proposals, some completely inane and some with half a chance. It began with me desperately wanting to call him Eddie Van Halen. I don’t know why. I just like the sound of the name. That was countered with “Elvis”. Ugh. I think I may be the only one in the Universe who does not appreciate his singing. Then we tried out Billy, Roger, Dash, Tom Petty, Midnight, Tippi (a crowd favorite, because he has a teensy tip of white on his tail), and countless other, now forgotten submissions. We settled on Tippi. Which I secretly hated. It reminded me of the lady who starred in Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds”. So, my husband magnanimously agreed to Eddie. But then when I tried it out, it fell flat. Oh, no! The name I had loudly and annoyingly championed for was a dud name for my dog. But add a couple of consonants and you have FREDDIE!! Now, that is a name I can shout loudly when he is digging up my garden, or croon lovingly when he is cuddling with me. And, we have watched Bohemian Rhapsody about as many times as there were feathers on Freddie Mercury’s boa. We love Freddie.

Freddie (the dog, not the star) has re-introduced me to my backyard. During the pandemic I became a bit of a hermit, hardly venturing from my office. Now I have an incentive to go outside and just enjoy the sunshine while Freddie enjoys the yard. I relax and do absolutely nothing but enjoy the breeze. I tried to meditate, but you can’t let your eyes off of Freddie very long or it’s “FREDDIE! PUT THAT DOWN!”

He is my shadow, snoozing on my futon as I write. Or he is guarding the bathroom door for me. He sprawls on the bed as we nap. He follows me room to room. He rushes to greet me when I come home, as though I were a long-awaited returning soldier. He jumps onto the couch and licks my face with his paws on my shoulders until I am choking with laughter. He chews his squeaky toys with such enthusiasm that I want to hide them until the headache that he just caused goes away. He wags his tail whenever he sees me.

We recently lost our dog, Cali, and never imagined adopting a new dog, let alone a playful puppy. But some things are meant to be. Freddie: you were meant to be our dog. ❤

14

Happy Old Farts Day to me!

No, it’s not my birthday: it’s the first day that my MEDICARE card is effective. And I am typing this in large font so that all of my fellow Old Farts can read it clearly 🙂

I’m so funny!

I guess I’m in shock. I used to be the one who turned up the “record player” (look that up, kids) when The Who sang, “HOPE I DIE BEFORE I GET OLD”. Never ever imagined that I would (almost) be sixty-five years of age. That is an ancient number when you are but a teenager. I am even older than The Beatles’ “When I’m 64”. Gad, I’m on the road to senility. But then again, many friends would say that I was born that way. “Is she acting loony tunes? or is she just being Susan?”

This is quite simply a nightmare, especially to someone who is a perpetually immature 23 year old inside; let’s not get too particular about the outside package. When did this happen? I collect social security; I have GRANDCHILDREN. Nevermind AARP, I joined that as soon as I could because they offer some great discounts and when it comes to saving money, than I am definitely a Senior Citizen. Gahhh!! I complain about my hip or knee hurting. And I actually shopped from The Vermont Country Store catalogue!! I think I bought something practical. I always wanted a nut chopper. See? I am sniggering at that because I am and always will be aggressively immature.

Alright, enough whining. It’s time for my Chair Yoga zoom class. Am I joking, or not? I am flaunting a Cheshire Cat grin, so I leave it to you to ponder.

What? What did you say; speak up, you whippersnapper!!

16

Back to a Semblance of Normal

Well, Ladies and Gentlemen:

I had my first vaccination yesterday. And all I have to show for it is a crummy band aid. I thought that after something so life-changing, I would at least be able to sport a bruise or a big red welt or something to prove my bravery at volunteering for a (shudder!) shot. But, no, there were no side effects except for a teensy bit of pain when I tried to sleep on that side last night. I kept waking up, surprised by the pain, and having to flip over; the shot is on the side that I normally sleep on. No big deal when you look at the positive outcome.

But, oh, my! I feel like Alice in Wonderful … except I popped out of a deep, dark hole in the ground and nothing is the same. We actually invited PEOPLE INTO OUR HOME! And then popped that bottle of champagne to celebrate. I wanted to surreptitiously spray our friends with Lysol, but my husband kept wrestling it out of my hands. He told me to “chill” but after a year of super-quaranting (just the two of us) it felt so weird for other people to be invading My Space. Weird in a good way. And then…

…we went to an actual restaurant, and were seated on the open-air patio. No one other than me and the waiters and busboys, were wearing masks. I could actually see people’s faces. I could see them laughing! and talking! No one looked as though they were about to rob a bank. I finally removed my mask when the food arrived and felt so naked! I haven’t been in public without a mask for what seemed like a century, and here I was enjoying myself with friends. How bizarre.

I ache for the lost year that has adversely effected so many many people, especially the children. I cry for those who did not survive. And I feel humbled that my life is turning back into a semblance of normal. But most of all, I thank all of the essential workers, healthcare professionals and geniuses who could produce a vaccine so quickly. I know that we are not yet in the clear, but we at least have our light at the end of the tunnel.

4

The Beginning of the End

I was reading an article in the newspaper (and it was a PAPER edition, mind you) about the surge in crude oil prices. Why was I reading about a subject that I usually have very little interest in? It was Fate. In this article, the reporter wrote, “…prices have surged … potentially signaling the beginning of the end of the pandemic.” And it was so casually written. I can’t tell you how overwhelmed I was while reading those seven little words. Words that, when strung together, mean so much more than simply, “have a nice day!” They mean our year of suffering and loneliness and fear and death just might be over. We might be looking at the pandemic in our rear view mirror very soon, leaving it nothing more than a tumbleweed in the dust.

I don’t know about you, but I felt like crying after I read those words. Oh, I had heard versions of it spoken on TV in the nightly news, but to see it in black and white, in all of its glorious significance, took my breath away. I wanted to share my happiness with you, my friends. I have been saving a couple bottles of champagne to pop open the first time that visitors are allowed into our house. I think I will put them into the refrigerator to chill.

3

I love you, Marge!

I’ve done a lot of on-line shopping during this pandemic. “A lot” is a gross understatement; I single-handedly kept the cardboard box industry rolling in business, I had so many deliveries. But I found countless things on-line that I never knew I wanted or needed! I now have a special utensil to mix things for baking; it looks like an old-fashioned rug beater, but not that big. It has become indispensable to me! I have a special pan to make individual brownies (which I totally forgot about until just now). Time for brownies! I now have a special machine to make plain water bubbly. I have new sheets with a high thread count. They have more wrinkles than my Great Aunt Estelle had at the end. (Bless her soul.)

It wasn’t just me that was the lucky recipient of exciting new discoveries, although I did have the most number of thoughtful gifts given to myself by myself. I was browsing the “Clearance” center of some old store and saw the cutest pillow! It was embroidered with a sweet saying and that was it: I bought it for my husband.

The pillow arrived the next week and I excitedly pushed aside all of the other things in the box that were meant for me until I found his pillow! I was so excited to give it to him. I went into his office and very proudly posed the pillow on the couch. And then I said, “Ta daa!! Turn around!” And he did, and then he silently looked at the pillow and asked, “I love you, Marge?”

“What? It doesn’t say ‘I love you, Marge’. It says …” and I looked at the pillow and by golly, it sure looked like it said “I love you, Marge.” I protested: “No! It says “I love you MORE. Or MOST.” Even I couldn’t quite decipher what the stupid pillow said. The embroidery was so curly-que that it was impossible to tell what word it was suppose to represent. My face fell. But my husband stood up and hugged me and was really very happy that I had remembered him in my shopping frenzy. He nuzzled my neck, and whispered into my ear, “I love you, Marge.”

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