I do not want to be buried alive.
How bad would that suck? I just watched Buried, starring the one and only Ryan Reynolds. He plays an innocent American contractor in Iraq that has been kidnapped and buried alive in a coffin. His captors have left him with a phone, so that he can call in some ransom money.
It was one of the most stress-inducing films I have ever seen. Who would you call, if you were dying and hoping to get $5 million so you could be rescued? And who would believe you (certainly not some random 911 operator)? Even worse, someone legit answers and they put you on hold.
It was a pretty good movie, and I was literally gasping with breath as it got closer and closer to the end. As he was running out of oxygen, I felt that I was too. The ending is cruel, and expected, but only expected in a "the-director-wouldn't-really-do-that-would-he-no-way-well-maybe-not-please-don't-do-it...oh-God-he-did."
It made me frantically search my mind for that entry in my worst-case scenario survival guide that taught me how to bust myself out of a coffin. I couldn't remember the exact wording, but it was something like: "bitch, you gon' die." I might be paraphrasing.
Overall, despite some political overtones, it was a pretty good movie. The ending was really intense, and I literally gasped with breath, just like Ryan was.
I just hope I don't get Buried alive.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
super clean up
Today was a good day, even if it didn't go as planned.
All week, I have been looking forward to going to the Super Bowl party that a co-worker was hosting. Anthony and I are hosting a going away party on the 12th for Eric, a cool guy who works in the newsroom. He got a job in Baton Rouge, which is like a 100 market leap, almost, so kudos to him.
The plan was to wake up early this morning, do a lot of cleaning for the party, then go to the Super Bowl party. Somehow though -- and it's really unlike me -- I didn't roll out of bed until 2:00! I don't know how it happened. I was tired, I guess.
So after we'd showered, instead of cleaning we decided to go on a hunt for this supposedly exquisite Chinese place called "Peking". We drove around for at least half an hour, and we never found it! By this point I was starving, and instead of doing the sensible quick fast-food option, we went to Outback. It took longer and was more than I had wanted to spend, but the service was great and the food was delicious. I even have a nice chunk of steak to take to work for dinner tomorrow. Score.
So we left totally stuffed, and it was about half an hour until the party was to start. We were both bloated, and determined to clean, so we skipped the party to clean the apartment.
And if you know me, then you know the apartment is gross. Really messy. I couldn't really imagine having anyone over, but this party means a lot to Anthony. He wants to show off Spunky (our salamander) and he wants to be social. He really wants to show off his drinking skills, and has practiced by drinking a whole bottle of wine + beer all by himself twice this week. He plans on making Jell-O shots and getting mini-kegs. Great for a party that your bosses will attend, right?
But after cleaning today, and we did a major cleaning, I am very excited about the shindig. The place actually looks great and not embarrassing at all. It's decorated like a bachelor pad, no hint of femininity, which doesn't bother me.
The only thing we have left to clean is the most intimidating: the guest room. We've been using it as a storage room, so it's cramped. I plan on clearing it out, though, and putting in a beer pong table for the party.
I'm actually very excited, and am trying not to stress the cost of all the supplies we'll need to make this thing fun.
I'll let ya know how it goes, dear Reader.
All week, I have been looking forward to going to the Super Bowl party that a co-worker was hosting. Anthony and I are hosting a going away party on the 12th for Eric, a cool guy who works in the newsroom. He got a job in Baton Rouge, which is like a 100 market leap, almost, so kudos to him.
The plan was to wake up early this morning, do a lot of cleaning for the party, then go to the Super Bowl party. Somehow though -- and it's really unlike me -- I didn't roll out of bed until 2:00! I don't know how it happened. I was tired, I guess.
So after we'd showered, instead of cleaning we decided to go on a hunt for this supposedly exquisite Chinese place called "Peking". We drove around for at least half an hour, and we never found it! By this point I was starving, and instead of doing the sensible quick fast-food option, we went to Outback. It took longer and was more than I had wanted to spend, but the service was great and the food was delicious. I even have a nice chunk of steak to take to work for dinner tomorrow. Score.
So we left totally stuffed, and it was about half an hour until the party was to start. We were both bloated, and determined to clean, so we skipped the party to clean the apartment.
And if you know me, then you know the apartment is gross. Really messy. I couldn't really imagine having anyone over, but this party means a lot to Anthony. He wants to show off Spunky (our salamander) and he wants to be social. He really wants to show off his drinking skills, and has practiced by drinking a whole bottle of wine + beer all by himself twice this week. He plans on making Jell-O shots and getting mini-kegs. Great for a party that your bosses will attend, right?
But after cleaning today, and we did a major cleaning, I am very excited about the shindig. The place actually looks great and not embarrassing at all. It's decorated like a bachelor pad, no hint of femininity, which doesn't bother me.
The only thing we have left to clean is the most intimidating: the guest room. We've been using it as a storage room, so it's cramped. I plan on clearing it out, though, and putting in a beer pong table for the party.
I'm actually very excited, and am trying not to stress the cost of all the supplies we'll need to make this thing fun.
I'll let ya know how it goes, dear Reader.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
where to run?
I just finished watching the sixth season of Weeds. It was very good, but in a different way than the previous seasons. Nancy did things differently than I would have (I would've gotten my corrupt husband to help me out of the mess before fleeing, but whatever).
Anyway, the season got me thinking. If I were on the run from both the FBI and the Mexican mafia (of sorts) where would I go? The Botwins first flee to Seattle, and when that doesn't work they go to a tiny town, but because of their own dumbness it doesn't work out, so they have to keep moving.
If I were on the run would I go to someplace like NYC, where it's big enough that I could hide and blend in?
Or would I go to a tiny town in the middle of Idaho where no one would be? There'd be less cops to worry about and who would follow me? But I imagine that in little town, the sketchy cops and townsfolk are skeptical of newcomers, so they very well might do some creepy hick ritual on me, or at least arrest me for no good reason.
I'd want to run to NYC, but I think little towns would be the best place to go. I'd risk inbred hicks in order to survive. But, then again, there's something alluring about being a fugitive in the big city. I'd be a grown up Kevin McCallister, kind of.
If I ever do need to make this decision, I'll let you know what I decide. But who knows if I'd be telling the truth?
Anyway, the season got me thinking. If I were on the run from both the FBI and the Mexican mafia (of sorts) where would I go? The Botwins first flee to Seattle, and when that doesn't work they go to a tiny town, but because of their own dumbness it doesn't work out, so they have to keep moving.
If I were on the run would I go to someplace like NYC, where it's big enough that I could hide and blend in?
Or would I go to a tiny town in the middle of Idaho where no one would be? There'd be less cops to worry about and who would follow me? But I imagine that in little town, the sketchy cops and townsfolk are skeptical of newcomers, so they very well might do some creepy hick ritual on me, or at least arrest me for no good reason.
I'd want to run to NYC, but I think little towns would be the best place to go. I'd risk inbred hicks in order to survive. But, then again, there's something alluring about being a fugitive in the big city. I'd be a grown up Kevin McCallister, kind of.
If I ever do need to make this decision, I'll let you know what I decide. But who knows if I'd be telling the truth?
Saturday, January 29, 2011
my foray into parenthood: the sad conclusion
Everything with Izzie was going OK, except for her barking. She barked a whole lot. I did some research on good apartment dogs (a little too late for that) and I found that beagles are horrible apartment dogs. Apparently they are known for their barking. They are a really needy breed, and love to be around people or other beagles. And if left alone for too long, they will bark to just hear their own voice, and sometimes they will self-mutilate. I couldn't see Izzie acting like a teenage girl with a razor blade, but maybe it happens.
To curtail her barking, we considered getting a shock collar or a collar that would spray her with dog Mace every time she barked. We ultimately decided to forgo both of those options. Instead, we covered her kennel with a mattress pad and blankets in an effort to muffle her cries. We even got her a hormone-soaked collar that supposedly smelled like a momma dog, which we made her wear when she was in the kennel. It slightly worked.
We had gotten into a nice routine. Anthony would wake up in the morning and walk her and feed her. He was the one to put her in the kennel when he left for work at three. And then on his dinner break from 7:30-8:30 he'd come home and do the routine all over again. He even hooked up a little TV to play Psych on loop to try and make her think she was with people.
Life was good with our little pup. Despite my reservations, I really did love her.
When Saturday rolled around, I decided to take her to Mom's house in Baton Rouge so I could do free laundry and show her off. My mom, sister and everyone else loved her-- but that was to be expected.
My plan was to properly crate train her when I was there, meaning I'd let her sit in her cage and whenever she barked I'd ignore her, and whenever she was quiet I'd reward her. We figured the house, as opposed to our apartment, would be ideal for this. And it was, but it turned out I was not a good teacher. I felt bad leaving her in there when Mom's 2 dogs and 4 cats got to roam free.
So Tracy and everyone else took turns playing with her. I didn't walk her because Mom's got a big fenced-in backyard. And she also ended up eating a lot more than usual- including cat food, which -- I found out the hard way-- makes dogs have to use the bathroom a lot.
Her new lack of structure undid everything we had taught her. She pooped everywhere!
Sunday was my breaking point. We came home from lunch and there was Izzie... in her kennel... covered in poop. She had danced all in it. Sprayed it everywhere. James saw it and busted out laughing. I did not laugh. I tried to clean it, I did, but I just couldn't. I puked a lot. Tracy had to clean it for me. She was really good with Izzie and I was impressed.
I gave Izzie a bath, which she hated, but desperately needed. I dried her off with a towel, but she was freeing and shaking really badly. I didn't know what to do for her. I giggled because she looked cute, and her shaking was really unnecessary. But Tracy didn't miss a beat. She swooped in, scooped the pup up in her new robe, and cuddled her and kept her warm.
I was impressed, but also let myself down. I could never be the kind of mom Izzie needed. Somehow it seemed to come naturally to Tracy. Not to me though.
That's when I realized that I could never be a single mom. Anthony is the one who does all the work with the dog, and I could never do it on my own. I wanted to leave Izzie and rush the two hours back to my apartment. I should have. But I didn't think that Anthony had said a proper goodbye to her. So we put her in the kennel and loaded her into my car.
I had driven half a mile when I smelled it. It was the most foul odor I have ever experienced. That's when I lost it. She had pooped in her cage in my car. I flipped out. I started yelling, crying, cursing and then hyperventilating. I pulled into a church parking lot, threw open the back of the car and yelled at Izzie for ruining my life. Why did she have to poop in the car? And of course she had somehow missed her puppy pad, and pooped all over the cage and her bed (which I had just washed) and it had splashed onto the carpet too.
Also, I had no paper towels or anything, so I had to use old McDonald's wrappers to clean it up with, which I left in the church's parking lot. Sorry God. The poop even got on my hand. That was the major breaking point.
I threw her back into her cage, doused my hand in sanitizer, and called Anthony. I berated him for making me get this dog I didn't want, I called him names, I told him I couldn't handle her and didn't want her and resented the sight of her, which also meant that I resented him. I was in hysterics. I then realized I left my favorite pillows at the house and that I was going to go back and get them and dump Izzie. He told me to do that, if it was causing me so much stress.
But I didn't want to get rid of his dog. Then he'd resent me. He promised he wouldn't, but I knew he would. So I told him I was bringing Izzie back with me, I just wanted him to know I hated him for putting me in the position. He didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. I was being irrational.
On the way back, I called my mom, freaking out, asking her to protect my pillows. I couldn't understand why her pooping had set me off so badly. Mom's insight helped me to realize it wasn't the poop that was freaking me out (although it played a part), but it was my new responsibility that had me scared. And I think she was right.
It had suddenly hit me that I was responsible for a living creature, and that meant that my freedom was being taken from me and I wasn't ready for that. I couldn't handle it.
The next day, though, everything was fine. I still loved Izzie and didn't resent her. Mom said that's what being a parent is-- sometimes they make you so angry and frustrated that you just can be near them, but then in a little while you're over it and are glad to have them.
That's how it was with Izzie. But that weekend changed me. Izzie was so happy frolicking in the backyard with Brutus (a bull mastiff who is easily 100 lbs heavier than she is). She loved having everyone's attention. She's a dog that needs a yard. Anthony did the math and decided that we kept her in the cage for like sixteen hours a day (including sleeping time) and that just wasn't fair to her. After seeing her loving a yard, I realized that I was stunting her and wasn't giving her the life she should have.
I told Tracy that she and her roommate, Casha, could keep her until Anthony and I have a house with a yard. Our lease is up in April so maybe we can rent a house then. I don't know. It was really hard giving her up. Mom was nice, and drove the two hours on a Wednesday to come get her. I was a wreck. I cried all day before work. I was mopey at work. And then on my dinner break at 7:30, Mom arrived to take my little girl.
Giving her up was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'm actually crying thinking about it.
But she gets a lot of attention with my sis in New Orleans. She has a backyard now, and it rarely in her cage. It's better for her this way, but I'm not so sure it's better for me. Actually, I know it's better for me. On the 23rd, which was Anthony's birthday (4 days after we gave her up), we spent the night at a hotel casino to celebrate his 25th. We never could've done that with izzie, and I wouldn't have even felt comfortable leaving her in the cage for a day trip.
So everything worked out. I learned a very important lesson from little Izzie: I am nowhere near ready for kids, and I don't know if I'll ever have any. I certainly learned that I don't have what it takes to be a mom. My friend, Catherine, said that if it were an actual child I would've acted differently-- I hope she's right. Either way, I don't know how people have kids. How do you take care of them? You can't leave them in a bathroom or a cage all day. I have new found respect for my mom, who was pretty much a single mom (we only got to see our dad during the summer and other school breaks).
It's not a "goodbye", though, it's just a "see ya later".
To curtail her barking, we considered getting a shock collar or a collar that would spray her with dog Mace every time she barked. We ultimately decided to forgo both of those options. Instead, we covered her kennel with a mattress pad and blankets in an effort to muffle her cries. We even got her a hormone-soaked collar that supposedly smelled like a momma dog, which we made her wear when she was in the kennel. It slightly worked.
We had gotten into a nice routine. Anthony would wake up in the morning and walk her and feed her. He was the one to put her in the kennel when he left for work at three. And then on his dinner break from 7:30-8:30 he'd come home and do the routine all over again. He even hooked up a little TV to play Psych on loop to try and make her think she was with people.
Life was good with our little pup. Despite my reservations, I really did love her.
When Saturday rolled around, I decided to take her to Mom's house in Baton Rouge so I could do free laundry and show her off. My mom, sister and everyone else loved her-- but that was to be expected.
My plan was to properly crate train her when I was there, meaning I'd let her sit in her cage and whenever she barked I'd ignore her, and whenever she was quiet I'd reward her. We figured the house, as opposed to our apartment, would be ideal for this. And it was, but it turned out I was not a good teacher. I felt bad leaving her in there when Mom's 2 dogs and 4 cats got to roam free.
So Tracy and everyone else took turns playing with her. I didn't walk her because Mom's got a big fenced-in backyard. And she also ended up eating a lot more than usual- including cat food, which -- I found out the hard way-- makes dogs have to use the bathroom a lot.
Her new lack of structure undid everything we had taught her. She pooped everywhere!
Sunday was my breaking point. We came home from lunch and there was Izzie... in her kennel... covered in poop. She had danced all in it. Sprayed it everywhere. James saw it and busted out laughing. I did not laugh. I tried to clean it, I did, but I just couldn't. I puked a lot. Tracy had to clean it for me. She was really good with Izzie and I was impressed.
I gave Izzie a bath, which she hated, but desperately needed. I dried her off with a towel, but she was freeing and shaking really badly. I didn't know what to do for her. I giggled because she looked cute, and her shaking was really unnecessary. But Tracy didn't miss a beat. She swooped in, scooped the pup up in her new robe, and cuddled her and kept her warm.
I was impressed, but also let myself down. I could never be the kind of mom Izzie needed. Somehow it seemed to come naturally to Tracy. Not to me though.
That's when I realized that I could never be a single mom. Anthony is the one who does all the work with the dog, and I could never do it on my own. I wanted to leave Izzie and rush the two hours back to my apartment. I should have. But I didn't think that Anthony had said a proper goodbye to her. So we put her in the kennel and loaded her into my car.
I had driven half a mile when I smelled it. It was the most foul odor I have ever experienced. That's when I lost it. She had pooped in her cage in my car. I flipped out. I started yelling, crying, cursing and then hyperventilating. I pulled into a church parking lot, threw open the back of the car and yelled at Izzie for ruining my life. Why did she have to poop in the car? And of course she had somehow missed her puppy pad, and pooped all over the cage and her bed (which I had just washed) and it had splashed onto the carpet too.
Also, I had no paper towels or anything, so I had to use old McDonald's wrappers to clean it up with, which I left in the church's parking lot. Sorry God. The poop even got on my hand. That was the major breaking point.
I threw her back into her cage, doused my hand in sanitizer, and called Anthony. I berated him for making me get this dog I didn't want, I called him names, I told him I couldn't handle her and didn't want her and resented the sight of her, which also meant that I resented him. I was in hysterics. I then realized I left my favorite pillows at the house and that I was going to go back and get them and dump Izzie. He told me to do that, if it was causing me so much stress.
But I didn't want to get rid of his dog. Then he'd resent me. He promised he wouldn't, but I knew he would. So I told him I was bringing Izzie back with me, I just wanted him to know I hated him for putting me in the position. He didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. I was being irrational.
On the way back, I called my mom, freaking out, asking her to protect my pillows. I couldn't understand why her pooping had set me off so badly. Mom's insight helped me to realize it wasn't the poop that was freaking me out (although it played a part), but it was my new responsibility that had me scared. And I think she was right.
It had suddenly hit me that I was responsible for a living creature, and that meant that my freedom was being taken from me and I wasn't ready for that. I couldn't handle it.
The next day, though, everything was fine. I still loved Izzie and didn't resent her. Mom said that's what being a parent is-- sometimes they make you so angry and frustrated that you just can be near them, but then in a little while you're over it and are glad to have them.
That's how it was with Izzie. But that weekend changed me. Izzie was so happy frolicking in the backyard with Brutus (a bull mastiff who is easily 100 lbs heavier than she is). She loved having everyone's attention. She's a dog that needs a yard. Anthony did the math and decided that we kept her in the cage for like sixteen hours a day (including sleeping time) and that just wasn't fair to her. After seeing her loving a yard, I realized that I was stunting her and wasn't giving her the life she should have.
I told Tracy that she and her roommate, Casha, could keep her until Anthony and I have a house with a yard. Our lease is up in April so maybe we can rent a house then. I don't know. It was really hard giving her up. Mom was nice, and drove the two hours on a Wednesday to come get her. I was a wreck. I cried all day before work. I was mopey at work. And then on my dinner break at 7:30, Mom arrived to take my little girl.
Giving her up was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. I'm actually crying thinking about it.
But she gets a lot of attention with my sis in New Orleans. She has a backyard now, and it rarely in her cage. It's better for her this way, but I'm not so sure it's better for me. Actually, I know it's better for me. On the 23rd, which was Anthony's birthday (4 days after we gave her up), we spent the night at a hotel casino to celebrate his 25th. We never could've done that with izzie, and I wouldn't have even felt comfortable leaving her in the cage for a day trip.
So everything worked out. I learned a very important lesson from little Izzie: I am nowhere near ready for kids, and I don't know if I'll ever have any. I certainly learned that I don't have what it takes to be a mom. My friend, Catherine, said that if it were an actual child I would've acted differently-- I hope she's right. Either way, I don't know how people have kids. How do you take care of them? You can't leave them in a bathroom or a cage all day. I have new found respect for my mom, who was pretty much a single mom (we only got to see our dad during the summer and other school breaks).
It's not a "goodbye", though, it's just a "see ya later".
my foray into parenthood, part: 2
After picking up Izzie, who fell asleep almost instantly in my arms, we go to PetsMart to get her the basics- a bed, a collar, a leash and some toys. I didn't realize how expensive doggies were! It shocked me. But, I had decided it was worth it because the gleam in Anthony's eyes when he looked at the puppy was priceless.
We take her to the apartment and that's where the magnitude of what we did hit home: we weren't allowed to have a dog. We could pay the pet fee of $500 if we wanted to, but we didn't have that. So we decided to keep her a secret. Now, we didn't trust her enough to just let her roam the apartment while we were out, so we put her in the bathroom. She didn't like that. She barked and barked and barked. It was piercingly loud. Anthony concluded that she had separation anxiety, and I agreed, and I hoped she would get over it rather quickly. I don't think she ever will.
I went to work at two, and then Anthony went to work at 3:00, and left Izzie in the bathroom. He came back on his lunch break between 7 and 9 to walk her and whatnot, and she was still barking. When we both finished work (we work at the same station with similar schedules) at 10:30 we went home. She was still barking.
This is when I really started to freak. We couldn't have her barking all night and all day. It wouldn't be fair to the other tenants. I wanted to take her back to the pet store, and that's what Anthony and I decided to do. After we made that decision that night, I cried and cried. It turns out that I must've loved her much more than I thought I did. Perhaps I'm not as hard as I pretend to be.
So we let her sleep in the bed with us, as a final goodbye. Of course, in the morning she peed in it, and it's the only set of sheets we have. But I wasn't mad at her-- she's a puppy and she had tried to wake us to take her out.
Anthony got up, walked and fed her. He started getting dressed to take her back to the pet store. Here's why I wanted to give her up:
-too much barking, we'd get caught.
-too expensive.
-I wouldn't be able to take random weekend trips because I wouldn't be able to take her along or leave her alone (both Anthony and my mom reminded me that I never go on random trips, but you never know).
-She was certainly not potty-trained.
But then, as a last resort, because ultimately I wanted her, I called my mom. After some convincing, she agreed to let Izzie live with her if I couldn't handle her. That was a big relief to me. This way, if we got caught, we could just say that we were pet-sitting and then give her to Mom. Anthony said my underlying issue was the fear of getting caught. That was definitely part of it.
We got her on a Monday, and agreed to give her a test run through Friday, then I would decide if we could keep her.
So after that, we went and got a kennel for her, because we had to do something to curb her barking. I'd always thought kennels were cruel and mean, but apparently dogs like to create dens, so a kennel is a good thing for them.
So, now I'm going to take another break. At this point I've realized that I want to keep her, even though it'll be hard. It's a Tuesday, and I've realized that giving her back after only one day isn't fair to her, anyway.
We take her to the apartment and that's where the magnitude of what we did hit home: we weren't allowed to have a dog. We could pay the pet fee of $500 if we wanted to, but we didn't have that. So we decided to keep her a secret. Now, we didn't trust her enough to just let her roam the apartment while we were out, so we put her in the bathroom. She didn't like that. She barked and barked and barked. It was piercingly loud. Anthony concluded that she had separation anxiety, and I agreed, and I hoped she would get over it rather quickly. I don't think she ever will.
I went to work at two, and then Anthony went to work at 3:00, and left Izzie in the bathroom. He came back on his lunch break between 7 and 9 to walk her and whatnot, and she was still barking. When we both finished work (we work at the same station with similar schedules) at 10:30 we went home. She was still barking.
This is when I really started to freak. We couldn't have her barking all night and all day. It wouldn't be fair to the other tenants. I wanted to take her back to the pet store, and that's what Anthony and I decided to do. After we made that decision that night, I cried and cried. It turns out that I must've loved her much more than I thought I did. Perhaps I'm not as hard as I pretend to be.
So we let her sleep in the bed with us, as a final goodbye. Of course, in the morning she peed in it, and it's the only set of sheets we have. But I wasn't mad at her-- she's a puppy and she had tried to wake us to take her out.
Anthony got up, walked and fed her. He started getting dressed to take her back to the pet store. Here's why I wanted to give her up:
-too much barking, we'd get caught.
-too expensive.
-I wouldn't be able to take random weekend trips because I wouldn't be able to take her along or leave her alone (both Anthony and my mom reminded me that I never go on random trips, but you never know).
-She was certainly not potty-trained.
But then, as a last resort, because ultimately I wanted her, I called my mom. After some convincing, she agreed to let Izzie live with her if I couldn't handle her. That was a big relief to me. This way, if we got caught, we could just say that we were pet-sitting and then give her to Mom. Anthony said my underlying issue was the fear of getting caught. That was definitely part of it.
We got her on a Monday, and agreed to give her a test run through Friday, then I would decide if we could keep her.
So after that, we went and got a kennel for her, because we had to do something to curb her barking. I'd always thought kennels were cruel and mean, but apparently dogs like to create dens, so a kennel is a good thing for them.
So, now I'm going to take another break. At this point I've realized that I want to keep her, even though it'll be hard. It's a Tuesday, and I've realized that giving her back after only one day isn't fair to her, anyway.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
my foray into parenthood, part: I
About three weeks ago, Anthony and I made what you might call a mistake. We had decided to get Anthony a new Cichlid, which is a tropical fish. He wanted to go to PetsMart, but last time we got a fish from there it was diseased, so I told him to try a local store instead. Boy, that was a mistake. So he finds this place called "Sam's Tropical Fish". It sounds promising. It wasn't.
We step inside and discover that the only fish they have is a sad-looking goldfish. It is in no way tropical. While Anthony is looking, I notice that the store has quite the puppy collection. They had the cutest Aussie pups. I pick up this little beagle/bloodhound mix that is to die for. Anthony comes over and he sees me holding her and it melts his heart. He wrongly assumes I've fallen in love with the pup. He is mistaken. There was no love.
So he takes a turn holding her, and he is the one who falls in love. After much debate (and by "debate" I mean a lot of mumbling and a complete lack of communication which caused the whole mess we would soon get ourselves into)-- plus a whole lot of pushing from the saleslady, we end up walking out with a 6-week-old, $20 beagle/bloodhound mix we called "Isabelle" but usually call "Izzie". All we wanted was a stupid fish.
We left the store, Anthony still cooing over his adorable new baby girl, and I'm holding this precious, sleepy thing, but already starting to feel the resentment rising to the surface.
What had we done?
There's a lot more to this story, but that's all I'm going to post tonight. I'll continue it tomorrow.
We step inside and discover that the only fish they have is a sad-looking goldfish. It is in no way tropical. While Anthony is looking, I notice that the store has quite the puppy collection. They had the cutest Aussie pups. I pick up this little beagle/bloodhound mix that is to die for. Anthony comes over and he sees me holding her and it melts his heart. He wrongly assumes I've fallen in love with the pup. He is mistaken. There was no love.
So he takes a turn holding her, and he is the one who falls in love. After much debate (and by "debate" I mean a lot of mumbling and a complete lack of communication which caused the whole mess we would soon get ourselves into)-- plus a whole lot of pushing from the saleslady, we end up walking out with a 6-week-old, $20 beagle/bloodhound mix we called "Isabelle" but usually call "Izzie". All we wanted was a stupid fish.
We left the store, Anthony still cooing over his adorable new baby girl, and I'm holding this precious, sleepy thing, but already starting to feel the resentment rising to the surface.
What had we done?
There's a lot more to this story, but that's all I'm going to post tonight. I'll continue it tomorrow.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
I like my meat dark
On my very first post of my grown-up blogging adventure, I will cover a very serious topic. At least, it's very serious to me.
Earlier today, while I was perusing slate.com, I stumbled upon an article that brought to light a fact that disturbed me. Be prepared to have your mind blown.
This surprising article claims that most Americans choose to eat the dry white meat as opposed to the soft, tender, juicy and succulent dark meat. I will always choose a drumstick over a breast.
In fact, so many people buy just the breasts (despite them being a lot more expensive), that chicken companies don't know what to do with the dark meat. So they export it to Russia, which is apparently where I need to be, because they love the dark meat. I will risk the horrible living conditions/high deathrates/ugly accents that abound in that cold country, just so I can have my dark meat.
However, apparently Russia is now banning our supposedly unwanted meat, claiming it's been bathed in ammonia.
So now the chicken people don't know where to send it. They're thinking China, or maybe even using some kind of kitchen magic to turn it into white meat so my silly peers will eat it.
But I have a solution-- instead of ruining a perfectly good thing, they can ship it straight to my mouth. I would be much obliged.
The "all-white" eaters claim that the drumstick looks too animalistic and makes them painfully aware that they are eating a dead creature. Well boo-hoo. That's a little weird, I have never ever looked at Shake-N-Baked leg and seen a cute, beady-eyed hen clucking around the farm.
However, that's probably the picture I'll start to see. Maybe I'll start taking the time to cluck an apology before sinking my teeth into the tasty flesh.
Earlier today, while I was perusing slate.com, I stumbled upon an article that brought to light a fact that disturbed me. Be prepared to have your mind blown.
This surprising article claims that most Americans choose to eat the dry white meat as opposed to the soft, tender, juicy and succulent dark meat. I will always choose a drumstick over a breast.
In fact, so many people buy just the breasts (despite them being a lot more expensive), that chicken companies don't know what to do with the dark meat. So they export it to Russia, which is apparently where I need to be, because they love the dark meat. I will risk the horrible living conditions/high deathrates/ugly accents that abound in that cold country, just so I can have my dark meat.
However, apparently Russia is now banning our supposedly unwanted meat, claiming it's been bathed in ammonia.
So now the chicken people don't know where to send it. They're thinking China, or maybe even using some kind of kitchen magic to turn it into white meat so my silly peers will eat it.
But I have a solution-- instead of ruining a perfectly good thing, they can ship it straight to my mouth. I would be much obliged.
The "all-white" eaters claim that the drumstick looks too animalistic and makes them painfully aware that they are eating a dead creature. Well boo-hoo. That's a little weird, I have never ever looked at Shake-N-Baked leg and seen a cute, beady-eyed hen clucking around the farm.
However, that's probably the picture I'll start to see. Maybe I'll start taking the time to cluck an apology before sinking my teeth into the tasty flesh.
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