Doodle

The care and feeding of Nemo

So last week I totally got conned into buying a fish for Caroline. I don’t know why I haven’t mentioned it yet because, heaven knows, it’s about the most exciting thing that’s gone on around here in days, but I realized I needed to let y’all know we bought a fish so when it dies in the next few weeks and I write a post about our fish dying, you won’t be all like “What fish? You don’t even have a fish”.

Here is our fish.

Caroline really thought outside the box and named him Nemo. It was an exceptionally original choice, not only because of the movie “Nemo”, but our last fish was also named Nemo. I asked her if maybe she wanted to call him Nemo II, but she insisted on just Nemo.

It kind of reminded me of when we took in a stray dog for a few weeks a couple of years ago and Caroline decided to call him Uncle Bruiser. For three weeks, we had Scout, Bruiser and Uncle Bruiser. Although you have to admit that adding Uncle to a moniker really gives it that extra something special. Just ask Ted Nugent.

Anyway, it all started when we went to the hardware store to pick up some paint swatches. There’s a pet store right next to the hardware store and she asked if we could just go in and look around. Clearly, the heat has made me insane because I said, “Sure!”.

I have every reason to believe she walked into that pet store with a strategy in place. She immediately saw the bunnies and asked if she could have one. When I refused, she moved on to the birds. Oh right. Like I’m going to have a bird in my house. There aren’t enough sedatives in the world for me to have a bird that has the potential to learn to talk. It was bad enough that one of the birds in the store knew how to make a sound like a dog’s squeaky toy. Every time that dang bird squeaked, I jumped out of my skin like a nervous cat on amphetamines and Red Bull.

After she received the no on the bird, she began to look admiringly at the hamsters and gerbils, otherwise known as dressed-up rats. By the time she asked me for a betta fish, I was relieved to buy just a fish. I felt like I’d escaped some deeper level of pet hell, when in reality I’d just been totally played. There is not a doubt in my mind she was gunning for the fish the whole time.

We brought Nemo home in the requisite plastic bag with a rubber band and I began to search for our old fish bowl. You can imagine my delight when I found it out in the yard, filled with water and covered in algae. Apparently, Caroline had been using it to conduct “science experiments”. If her hypothesis was that leaving a fish bowl full of water out in the South Texas sun would cause it to grow green fur and drive her mama crazy with the all the bleaching, then she absolutely proved her theory.

After the bowl was clean, we dumped Nemo in the water, then I pulled out the instructions on how to care for your betta fish and read number one, “Leave your fish in the plastic bag and put bag in new water to give fish a chance to acclimate to the new surroundings.”

Oops.

I guess it would have been helpful to read the instructions beforehand.

P came home around lunchtime and we introduced him to the newest member of our family. P is a fan of fish. In fact, he brought an aquarium into our marriage that we kept in our dining room for the first two years of our marriage. It was a dark time that I don’t like to dwell on for too long.

(Having the aquarium in the dining room was a dark time, not the first two years of our marriage. Just wanted to clarify.)

(It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the fish, it’s just hard to decorate around a wooden aquarium stand that screams “Bachelor Pad”.)

Caroline told P all about her new fish and P said, “Hey! I wonder if he would eat one of your Sea Monkeys?”

“Oh Daddy! Can we feed him a Sea Monkey?”

What kind of sick people do I live with?

Those Sea Monkeys are pets. I have been through a lot with those Sea Monkeys. My sweet friend Amanda gave Caroline those Sea Monkeys about two months ago and in that time I have managed to kill them countless times only to have them rise from their overfed ashes like the Phoenix. I am emotionally invested in those Sea Monkeys.

I should have known Caroline didn’t feel the same way when she wore them around her neck in the Sea Monkey Friendship Locket to go eat sushi. It never even dawned on her that she was eating the larger version of her pets.

P told her they could feed Nemo a Sea Monkey when he got home from work. Sure enough, later that evening they sucked one of the Sea Monkeys out of its tank and took it into Caroline’s bedroom. I stayed in the kitchen because I couldn’t bear to watch. Two minutes later I heard excited squeals and laughter as Caroline yelled, “HE ATE IT!!! HE ATE IT!!”

And that’s the last thing Nemo has eaten. Ever since he had a taste of live Sea Monkey, he refuses to eat his normal fish food. Or maybe it’s not the Sea Monkeys. Perhaps we bought the fish version of Ghandi and he’s protesting something. All I know is boyfriend won’t eat.

(He may be a girl for all I know. He just seems like a manly fish.)

This is why I’m telling you we bought a fish. Because if he keeps up this hunger strike, it won’t be long before I have to inform you that Nemo has gone on to a better place.

Y’all have a good weekend.
Little person, big personality

I spend a lot of time worrying that Caroline is too introverted and tends to keep her personality all tucked inside.

VBS from Big Mama on Vimeo.

I’d love to translate and share what any of that has to do with Vacation Bible School, but all I really understand is the “caw, caw” at the end because bird noises are a universal language.
The good news is that salsa and I have never been closer

Before I ramble on and on about the weekend, I’d just like to say how proud I am that I have written things here that cause people to find my site when they google “My dog has a big, stinky glob on his teeth”. If that isn’t a sure sign that I’m cranking out some fine literary material, then I don’t know what is. I feel certain that Hemingway is rolling in his grave from the envy.

It is with deep regret and sadness that I inform you that I have now been without a Diet Coke for five days. And it’s with even more sadness that I tell you that it’s made all the difference in the world. The constant burning I had in my throat for over a month has been totally gone since Saturday. I believe that the Diet Coke and I have been in a dysfunctional relationship for the last four years. I have loved it with all my heart and soul while it has been trying to take down my esophagus. It’s the classic tale of heartbreak.

Girl meets beverage. Girl loves beverage. Beverage breaks girls heart and stomps it into a million pieces.

Fortunately as I strolled the aisles at HEB on Friday in a desperate quest for a rebound beverage, something caught my eye, Lipton Green Tea Mixed Berry flavor. It whispered in my ear and vowed it would never leave me broken-hearted like the Diet Coke, so I took it home with me and we’ll see what happens. As of this writing, I find it to be delightful and refreshing.

I even mentioned to a friend that I felt kind of healthy drinking Green Tea because it has so many health benefits. Her comment was that it was healthy when brewed the way the Chinese do it, but now that Lipton has gotten a hold of it there are no guarantees. Whatever. It totally says something about antioxidants on the label so I’m going with it.

Anyway, I’m just thankful that I found a new source of caffeine on Friday because I had no idea how much I was going to need it before the day was over. Our church hosts the occasional family movie night during the summer and this past Friday night was the first one. P took Caroline and her friend S out to eat dinner and then to movie night. Since they weren’t going to be home until about 9:00, I called S’s mom to see if she could spend the night which was the cause of many squeals of delight from the girls.

They got home around 9:15 all jacked up on movie candy and the sheer exhilaration that only comes from watching an overweight panda do some sweet Kung-Fu moves. The next thing I knew my living room had been transformed into some sort of beauty salon/horse stable for their American Girl dolls.

In truth, Caroline doesn’t actually have a real American Girl doll but rather the Our Generation knock-off doll from Target because when she asked for an American Girl doll last year for her birthday I didn’t believe that she’d actually ever play with any kind of doll and certainly wasn’t going to bet $100 on it. It’s a decision that I have been proud of because that doll had laid half-clothed and isolated in some semblance of purgatory for dolls for the better part of eleven months before Friday night. Not to mention, Caroline doesn’t know the difference.

Although the day is rapidly approaching when she’ll be able to read the “OUR GENERATION” tag that sticks out of Jenny’s torso.

Really she has only herself to blame because Santa got totally burned by the pink Pottery Barn Kitchen that he spent way too much money on about three years ago only to have her play with it approximately two times, one of which was the other day when I threatened to sell it. Poor Santa, he was just so naive and enthusiastic about shopping for a little girl who, as it turns out, would rather have her very own hot pink rifle.

The girls were having so much fun that I didn’t have the heart to make them go to bed. I loved sitting on the couch and listening to all their little conversations that began with “Let’s pretend that…”

“Let’s pretend that Jenny is going to help Ruthie brush her horse.”

“Let’s pretend that the horse is going to the beauty shop for horses.”

“Let’s pretend that Ruthie wants to get her hair cut really short.”

“Let’s pretend that Diet Coke isn’t some sort of toxic substance.”

Actually, I think that last one was mine.
The spirit of Old Mexico with a little big city panache

Monday night I went to bed determined to wake up the next day and begin the search for the perfect urban sombrero for P. And when you live in San Antonio and find yourself in need of a big dang hat, where else would you go but to El Mercado?

That’s “The Market” for those of you who don’t possess my vast knowledge of the Spanish language. I can also tell you how to ask “how much for the donkey?” in case you ever find yourself in need of that particular phrase. Those eight years of Spanish really paid off.

I hadn’t been to El Mercado in years because it’s a touristy thing to do and I generally try to avoid all touristy activities because I have an aversion to being in crowds of people wearing socks with sandals, but I thought Caroline might think it was fun. I mean, how many places can you go these days that sell bullwhips and combs that look like switchblades all under one roof?

Not nearly enough is the correct answer.

We walked through the market as Caroline’s eyes got bigger and bigger. She had never seen so much useless, yet beautiful, stuff under one roof, which is saying a lot because we go to Target at least once a week. She’d pick up various things and ask “Is this Mexican?” And I’d say, “No baby, that was made in China because it wouldn’t be fair if Mexico cornered the market on making junk. It’s part of the Free Trade Agreement.”

She did manage to score an embroidered Mexican tunic and a darling headband, both of which she insisted on wearing immediately. I couldn’t bring myself to look closely at the labels because I didn’t want to know if they were made in China. The pain and disillusionment would be too great. It was disheartening enough when I recently discovered that the group Menudo was actually from Puerto Rico and not Mexico. Next thing you know I’ll learn that cheese enchiladas were originally made in Taiwan.

Finally, we got down to business and begin looking for the perfect hat. Oh, and we did find it.

Ladies and Gentlemen (as if I have more than two male readers), I present to you the Urban Sombrero.

It can provide you and your six closest friends with plenty of shade.

In the end I decided it was probably a little bit more of a statement than P is looking to make, unless it were to become his trademark and we renamed our business Big Dang Hat Landscaping, which doesn’t seem like a likely scenario. We sacrificed our desire to purchase the biggest hat in the place for a more understated, tasteful version.

And then we went to Mi Tierra, ate fresh flour tortillas and drank Shirley Temples.

Or as they’d say in Mexico, El Shirley Temples.
It’s better than diggin’ a ditch

We had a weekend full of festivities around here. There was a birthday party at the pool on Friday night, a t-ball party at the pool on Saturday, and basically nothing on Sunday because I didn’t want to look at the pool for at least twenty-four hours. After all, summer is a marathon, not a sprint and we can’t burn ourselves out this early in the game. As it stands, all the food served at the pool grill has already started to taste the same which is bad considering the culinary offerings range from chicken fingers to bean and cheese chalupas.

The good news is that all the drinks are served with Sonic-type ice. It’s worth the price of membership to be able to sit poolside and drink all manner of cold beverages out of a styrofoam cup filled with that ice.

In between all the weekend fun, Caroline kept asking if we could wash my car. In fact, it was the first thing she requested on Saturday morning but I managed to refocus her attention on the impending t-ball party with a lecture about the importance of saving our energy. But then she brought it up again on Sunday morning and then again on the way home from church.

Apparently she has fond remembrances of the last time we washed my car at home even though it’s been over a year ago. I’d like to think it’s because I know how to bring out the fun in any situation, although this is a real conversation we had Saturday night after she heard me refer to “the fun police”.

“Mama? What are the fun police?”

“Well, it’s just a name for people who don’t like to see other people having too much fun.”

“Oh, so that’s like you. You’re the fun police.”

I’m not going to lie. It was like a knife through my heart. I guess being labeled the fun police is the price you pay for making a person leave the pool before they were able to eat their third ice cream sandwich.

And for the record, I AM fun. At least that’s what I tell myself.

We got home from church, ate some lunch, and then I told her to go put on some old clothes so we could go wash the car. Nothing like waiting until the temperature was comparable to sitting directly on the equator. I put on a big, floppy hat to protect my face from the sun because I don’t need any more sun spots, not to mention the fact that I have a big PMS breakout on my left cheek that would need its own chair at a restaurant. Caroline decided to put on her big hat too, and as we walked out the door, P reminded us to make sure we set up the orange cones around the perimeter of the car to warn oncoming traffic.

Because at least three cars will drive by in an hour.

And all of them will slow down to see who the nerds are wearing the big straw hats surrounded by orange cones.

I let Caroline set out the cones because she needs to earn her keep.

We filled a bucket with soapy water and began to scrub. Caroline was very enthusiastic and exclaimed, “THIS IS GOING TO BE SO MUCH FUN!”

Approximately three minutes later she declared it was too hot, she was all soapy, and was going to go back inside, leaving me to die of heat stroke all by myself.

However, I couldn’t just hose the car off and call it done. I had to finish it because y’all should know by now that this is the sort of task that causes all my compulsive, perfectionist tendencies to ramp up at warp speed. I went into the garage to look through our arsenal of car wash supplies and was disappointed to see our stash isn’t what it used to be.

Sure, that may look like a lot to the untrained eye, but it is nowhere near the amount P usually needs to feel secure enough to sleep at night knowing he could wake up the next day and wash sixty-five cars at a moments notice. P is a fan of buying in bulk.

As Exhibit A, I present this bag of Japanese bread crumbs that he purchased several months ago.

Granted, he uses these when he fries fish and he does make the best fried fish in the world. However, last I checked we weren’t planning on hosting a fish fry for every living thing in a thirty mile radius.

But we could if we needed to and that’s the most important thing.

I asked him later what happened to his car wash arsenal. It’s not like we’ve been using it to wash our cars since that only happens every twelve or thirteen months. I thought maybe he’s been so consumed with work and Operation Attic Cool-down that he’d just moved on to more important things like researching every single brand of radiant barrier paint or making his daily trip up into the attic to see what the temperature is and then record it in a little journal he’s been keeping to chart the progress of our new, improved attic fan.

I am not making that up. It’s a real thing. The first time I saw it I thought maybe he was taking his temp every morning to see when he’s ovulating and then I remembered that men don’t ovulate and we’re not trying to have a baby. Plus, 110 degrees would be a little on the high side for even the sickest person.

It turns out that he was vaguely aware that our car wash supplies have been dwindling, but didn’t know to what extent. The culprit is Shorty, one of our landscape company employees.

Shorty rides the city bus to work everyday, but he brings his bike on the bus with him so he can ride it from the bus stop down the street to our house. Obviously, it gets dirty in that process so Shorty faithfully coats his bike in Armor-All each day before he leaves and rides it another 1/10th of a mile back to the bus stop. He likes to keep his ride looking fresh.

The ladies are suckers for some shiny bicycle tires.

All I know is the next time Caroline starts begging me to go wash the car, I’m going to send her out and tell her she can wash Shorty’s bike.

Orange cones are optional.
Time to sit back and unwind

This is how we started the last day of Kindergarten.

And this is how we ended it.

Not pictured: the popcorn shrimp and ice cream sandwiches that the girls inhaled.

Also not pictured: the mom who was on the brink of exhaustion after four and a half hours at the pool and about to pass out on the couch before she finally crawled into bed to prepare to do it all over again for the next 70 or so days.

Hooray for summer.