I Thought the Tank of Horrors Had Gone Away. Not So Much.

I hate cleaning the fish tank. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

I used to not mind it. I might have even enjoyed it. Sucking out the mucky water is oddly satisfying. Scraping algae off the glass is awarding. Arranging the rocks is sort of like a puzzle. A puzzle in which failure to get the pieces to fit just right will result in a dead fish or two, but still. Kind of fun.

But then I ripped the arms of the big shrimp a few months, and all the fun got sucked out of the project.

It was an accident. Seriously. I moved a rock over a tiny bit because it had started to fall and just like that, there was an avalanche. I knew the shrimp had been in the corner, behind the rock pile, so I tried to move things around and away from it. But, it moved. I ended up dropping a big rock right on top of it. As I tried to un-smoosh it, it suddenly backed up but kinda forgot to take its big pincher arms with it because they were still stuck under the rock.

Whoops.

The arms grew back. Eventually. In the meantime, I swear that shrimp would spend its every waking moment trying to kill me. It would chase me from side to side, waving its stumpy arms at me and making mean faces.

Along the way, it apparently had a conversation with the Maroon Clownfish, Belly. Belly is now out to get me as well. Tonight as I stood carefully peeling hair algae off of some rocks, paying super careful attention to the eight million starfish that suddenly appeared in the tank (and are now also trying to kill me), Belly kept attacking. ATTACKING. She lunged at my gloved hand over and over, trying to rip the yellow protective layer off my hand so she could nibble at my skin.



I am not fish food. I don't take well to nibbling.

Just as I jerked my hand back and swatted at Belly for the eight millionth time, the shrimp suddenly appeared behind my hand. I WAS SURROUNDED.

I pulled my hand out of the water, the only place the killer creatures can't go, and glared at them. Slowly, one at a time, I gave them each the stink eye.

Belly responded by jumping out of the water.

I quit. Somebody else is going to have to clean the fish tank.

It's Baaaaaaack

It's been a long time since I last mentioned the Saltwater Fish Tank of Horrors, and for good reason--nothing has been happening with it. Ever since the drama with the ghost crab, the domestic violence between the clown fish, and the tank itself exploding, not much has happened. I figured that it was the actual acrylic that made up the tank that was jinxed since the replacement tank has been pretty drama-free. Sure, there was the time that the Emerald Crab disappeared and I found him stuck in the filter system a few months later (alive and well), but other than that? Nada. Zip. Zilch.

Part of the lack of drama could certainly be attributed to the tank finally settling down from the initial set-up, and to the fact that I stopped paying attention to it. Short of cleaning it every couple of weeks, I wasn't doing much with it. The worms were tamed by a few carefully selected shrimp, but I hadn't even added any new fish in a very long time. Until a few weeks ago, that is.

We happened to wander into a local fish store, and the poopfaces just HAD to go and order two of the fish that I have always wanted. They had a Green Clown Goby and a Jawfish, and the prices were really low. Of course I had to buy them, even though it's ridiculously idiotic to go and add more fish when we have to move the tank in a month.

All was well. Alexis named the Green Clown Terminator (I can't make this stuff up) and the Jawfish was still trying to earn a name. Everybody was eating and happy and generally thriving. Was.

Today I figured I would give it a good cleaning and try to stack the rocks a little better. The Jawfish is a sand dweller and will bury itself in a little hole, only sticking its head out to look around. However, ours had taken to hiding in the rocks. I thought maybe if I made his beach a little bigger, he would amuse me with some shenanigans.

I started pulling the rocks out and carefully stacking them in a plastic storage tub. I hadn't actually taken inventory of where all the fish and shrimp were hiding because they always figure out what to do when I get all crazy with the aquarium cleaning. As I grabbed the largest rock and set it on the towel next to me, I heard a noise.

Flflflflflflflk.

I had no idea what it was and kept on cleaning.

Flflflflflflflk.

Then it dawned on me--there was a fish hiding inside one of the caves in the rock, and it was literally flopping around like a fish out of water. I quickly picked up the rock and stuck it back in the water, silently pleading with the fish to not go flopping out of the rock and on to the floor. Fortunately, I didn't even catch sight of who was flopping around all pissy.

When I finally finished the cleaning and restacking, I plugged in the pump. Nothing happened--the water remained calm. I tried scraping the pump's outlet and dislodged a little muck. Still, the water sat unmoving. I had no idea what the problem was, so I started dismantling the pieces. As I yanked one tube from another, I braced myself for a shower. The pump on that tank is pretty powerful, and I've had the pleasure of dancing in a salty rain when I accidentally bumped it off track once before.

Nothing happened.

Finally I reached down and pulled the entire pump out so I could try figuring out what was blocking the water flow.

And saw the problem.

Somehow, some way, the Jawfish had managed to squeeze through a very tiny opening and found its way into the small part of the tank that housed the pump. Even better, he had the genius idea to get really close to the inlet.

It wasn't pretty. The fish's head was turned all the way around so that the eyes were facing the same direction as the tail. And did you know that fish can get hickeys? Oh, he had a hickey. A big red circle made it real obvious that the fish had gotten stuck to the inlet, tried to fight away from it, but then died a real . . . uh . . . sucky death.

This had better not be a sign of things to come.

It's a Monster Mash

Lately Alexis has decided that sleep? Is so not worth her time. For over a week she has been waking up SOBBING five, six, seven, eleventy billion times per night. Needless to say, this has left Mr. Husband and I to function at a wee bit less than our A-Game. I'd say we're hovering somewhere around our D-Game, which is why it didn't occur to me until yesterday to just ask her what the heck is going on.

Her answer? "I scared."

Totally helpful considering even my sleep-deprived brain had long ago figured out that she was probably having bad dreams. Why else wake up sobbing, y'know? So I drilled her some more and eventually it came to light that there is a monster under her bed.

A monster.

That seemed workable.

So when I tucked her in for the night, we did a monster check all around her bedroom. She was confident that everything was OK, so we turned out the lights, played our usual game of Steal a Kiss, and off I went to try and get some work done on my laptop while watching perhaps the greatest comeback in the history of the Pittsburgh Penguins.

Just as the Pens managed to close a 5-2 deficit to one goal, Alexis started screaming. Of course neither Mr. Husband nor I was in a big hurry to stop watching the game, so we admittedly let things go on for a minute or two longer than usual in hopes that Alexis would just go back to sleep and leave us out of it.

A few minutes later Mr. Husband caved and went upstairs to console the poor kid. She told him all about the monster under her bed. I'm guessing that would be right around the time he pretended to smash it because I heard a crashing sound loud enough to wake my Freaked-Out Mom Senses. I dashed upstairs to find the two of them talking about monsters.

It was at that moment that I realized just how differently Man Brain works from Woman Brain.

Mr. Husband's answer? He would kill it. Beat it up. Smash it. Punch it. If Alexis got scared, all she had to do was let him know and he would happily blast the monster into a million little pieces.

Of course, my sissy Woman Brain was all, "WOAH! Now, Cowboy, don't be adding violence to the fear!" I suggested we look under the bed again, maybe turn on a night light, and pull out the maracas because OF COURSE monsters are scared of maracas, right?

(You can't blame me for trying.)

I'm thinking that we really need to get a good night's sleep because neither one of us was able to figure out a way to calm her down. Last night was not a good one.

Round Two of Monster Booty Kicking started tonight, but I don't yet know how that's going to turn out. I just know that we sent two monsters swimming in the saltwater tank this evening, helping it to truly cement it's title as the Saltwater Tank of Horrors.

BTW, Alexis described the monster as red and furry, and says it's name is Elmo.

Like I said, that fish tank truly is the Saltwater Tank of Horrors.

Random Reminders

-- The verdict is in and Miss Megara Madison, aka The World's Most Annoying Bulldog, does not need plastic surgery. The drops appear to be working and her eye is better, so the vet has us keeping up with the drops for just a few more weeks. Fortunately, she's not bright enough to run away when the drops get walked her way, so it's really not that bad giving them to her. Mr. Husband can continue to have fun with that.

-- There was a death in the Fishtank of Horrors. Purple, the worm-eating fishy, died with his/her mouth agape the other day. The cause is unknown, but I'm thinking old age might have been a factor. That sucker had been around for a while and was already full grown when we got him/her. Peace out, Purple.

-- A while ago I had asked how to get the Toddler to cover her mouth when she coughs. Reactions ranged from helpful hints to "get over it, she's 2." I am pleased to say that I refused to just accept having Toddler breath shot in my face at Mach 5 and tried the "catch your cough" route. It worked. I'd say Alexis remembers to cover her mouth about 70% of the time these days, and she yells at adults for not doing it 100% of the time. I can live with that.

-- The comments on this post have turned a little, um, let's go with "interesting." Just so we're all crystal clear, I am a broken record when we go out, constantly saying, "Bum on the seat, please." That is Alexis' only sin when we go out--trying to stand in her seat. There is no way that kid is running around or in need of a babysitter. I just want her to get silverware, have a couple of napkins, not be physically injured by hot plates, and not spend longer waiting for someone else to make food than I would to run to the grocery store, cook, and clean up the kitchen faster. Alexis is very well-behaved in restaurants, and the one time that she wasn't? We paid and left. In return for her good behavior, I would just like to not have any other meals where she is stuck eating buttered noodles with her fingers because apparently Red Robin has no silverware anywhere. Or napkins. Cause that was. not. fun.

-- Earlier today, Alexis fell asleep in the car. When she woke up, she was all, "I had fun at Chuck E. Cheese." We haven't been to The Rat's Hole in months, so I'm thinking she had a dream about going to Chuck E. Cheese. It seems that it was a pretty good dream because Alexis was all about saying "thank you" and "that was fun." That's my kind of trip to Chuck's--the kind where I don't actually have to go, but the kid has a blast. We really should do that more often.

-- Thanks to everyone who linked to the 9/11 post and who has helped us raise a few more pennies to help support the Flight 93 Memorial. We've got a few more days left in the month, so click away and help us out a bit more. I'll let y'all know how much we ended up raising when all is said and done.

Legs are Obviously Overrated

Before the great Flood of Horror, there was another little incident with the Fishtank of Horrors that I didn't quite get around to mentioning. It's a gruesome tale, so consider yourself warned.

Waaaay back in April, I was having trouble with fish randomly disappearing in the tank. It had been going on for a few months and was getting on my last nerve. I couldn't figure out what I was doing to kill all those fish and spent HOURS testing the water, cleaning the tank, and fretting over what the problem could be. Then, one day, I saw my answer. I saw the brittle starfish hunting down and killing a pink fish.

The brittle starfish, with a body about the size of a quarter and long, almost worm-like skinny tentacles, was a murderer.

A day or two later, that same starfish was obviously poised outside a cave, just waiting for the fish inside to emerge so the starfish could have a nice little Scooby Snack. Mr. Husband reached into the tank and with his bare hands, yanked the starfish out and shoved it into the tiny little 5-gallon tank that was sitting on the dresser right next to the bigger tank.

*shudders*

It's punishment was solitary confinement.

I had intended to bag up the starfish and haul him down to the local fish store. It was to be a case of "leaving the baby on the doorstep" except that in this instance, the baby was a nasty killer starfish. But days went by and then turned into months, and the starfish remained in the isolation tank.

I stopped caring.

Occasionally I would drop some food in, but mostly I just left the starfish to do whatever it is that starfish do. Then one day I caught a Mother Truckin' Worm in the good tank and didn't really feel like walking four feet to properly dispose of it in the throne, so I decided to give the starfish company. I plopped the worm into the isolation tank. Over time, I plopped in about five more worms.

At least the starfish had company, right?

Well, maybe not. Early last week I lifted the lid to the tiny isolation tank and noticed that the starfish looked . . . off. It's color wasn't quite right. It was sort of twitchy looking, what with it's rolled up legs and paler than usual coloring. If starfish molted, that's what I would have thought it was doing. It looked very weird and was moving in odd circular yet tangly motions.

However, it was not weird enough to keep my attention for long. After staring at it for about ten minutes, I headed out so we could continue to enjoy our staycation. I didn't give the starfish another thought until that night when we returned. I opened the tank lid to drop in some food and realized that the starfish, who previously had five very long and gangly legs, suddenly only had one leg.

The starfish ripped all of its own legs off. Except one. Because once you're down to one leg, you don't have another leg to rip it off with.

Gross.

I grabbed the net and started sloshing around to scoop out the one-legged starfish. Except, it wasn't dead. No siree, the thing survived ripping off its own legs. So, I let it be.

A few days passed and the one-legged starfish somehow persevered. I have to think it was holding onto life for one reason and one reason only.

It wanted to rip off that last leg.

It succeeded in that mission a few days ago and has since passed on to the giant ocean in the sky. In it's wake, it has left one severely twitchy woman who doesn't even want to think about how you rip off an appendage when it's the only one you've got.

*shudders*

Because I like you, here's a photo that may help wipe tha image of a one-legged starfish working on being a no-legged starfish from your brain.

Fish Poop. In the Living Room.

In case you haven't noticed, I really haven't been hurting for topics to write about lately. In fact, I have a whole long list of things to write in my head. There's the post about the first gymnastics class, another gruesome tale from the Fishtank of Horrors, a couple more staycation photo posts and stories, and a few random tales of Toddlerdom. What I'm saying is that I'm really not hurting for blog fodder these days, so why exactly was there a puddle in my living room today?

Allow me to start at the beginning. As is required of all first days back from vacation, today at work was chaotic, to say the least. Around 1:00 I decided I was going to go loopy if I didn't step out for a minute, so I figured that I would run home, grab a Bagelful (highly recommended, btw), and make a quick run to the bank. All was going according to plan--I had a warm toasted Bagelful in one hand, the check that needed deposited in the other, and I was cutting through the living room to go back out to my car, thinking cheery thoughts about how nice it is to be able to run home from the office in less than ten minutes.

Then there was that damn puddle. Right in the living room.

I looked at the puddle. I looked at the dogs. I looked at the puddle again. It didn't look like the kind of puddle that I could blame on the dogs. Nor the cats. It looked sort of . . . splashy. So I looked up. There were droplets of water hanging from the ceiling. I tossed by Bagelful to the Bulldog and darted up the stairs, silently hoping that I had left a faucet running or something equally simple to fix.

It was not to be. There was no water in the bathroom.

There was a LOT of water in Alexis' room.

Water that belonged in the Saltwater Fishtank of Horrors.

I yanked the plug on the filter for the aptly named Tank of Horrors, hoping that the motor had not already burned out from the lack of water cycling through. The tank was down to perhaps 1/3 capacity. I assumed that a hose had come loose, spraying water around (it has happened once before, but was caught immediately). I quickly began grabbing towels to clean up the mess. Alexis' room has laminate flooring from Ikea and it is far from being water resistant so I scrubbed and mopped and wiped, hoping to dry it all out enough to keep from having to replace the floor.

Once I finally had the worst of the lake cleaned up, I surveyed the damage. Alexis' sheep-covered wool rug from Pottery Barn was drenched, but probably salvageable. Her bed was splattered, but not anything that new sheets wouldn't fix. Two books that had been on the floor were ruined. Cry with me on that one, y'all, because of all the books to have get ruined? They were her two favorites--Knuffle Bunny and Knuffle Bunny, Too. Some clean clothes that I probably should have tucked into the closet weeks ago were damp, but not horribly so. The floor seemed remarkably unbothered by all the moisture. The dresser that housed the Tank of Horrors was filled with water, but seemed to be holding up.

What wasn't holding up was the Tank. It wasn't a loose hose. Instead, there was a crack running all the way from the top to the bottom of one of the front corners. And Yippee Yahoo Yay! It was still leaking.

Half a roll of tape and several towels later, I had to go back to work and hope for the best until somehow a new tank fell out of the sky.

Those things aren't cheap, yo. Neither are the fish. The biggest worry, however, was the coral. There's a lot of valuable coral in the Tank of Horrors, and I'm really freakin' attached to it. I have approached coral like I do gardening and have only bought less than perfect or very small pieces at a great price then hoped that they would grow nice and big and healthy. So far, it has worked. Several corals that I paid $10 for have tripled in size and would now sell for well over $50. So you see, there is no abandoning this project at this point.

I made a bunch of phone calls and was able to confirm that the tank is still under warranty. Except, I bought it online, so a replacement would have to be shipped and only after I provide a copy of my original invoice, photos, Social Security Numbers, and probably a blood sample from my first-born son. So I called Mr. Husband and told him to go buy a damn new tank and that we'll leave the warranty battles for AFTER all the critters are safe and sound.

We spent the entire evening moving everything to the new, not cracked, tank. I have no idea who will or will not survive the transport; setting up a new tank and stocking it with fish and coral the same day is not exactly a bright idea. But, it was that or continue letting Lake of Horrors spread throughout the house.

I have absolutely no idea what made a tank that has been set up since February, has never been moved, and was perfectly stable crack. Nobody was home when it happened, the door to the room was closed, and nothing has been changed up there in quite a long time. I can only guess that it finally cracked under all the pressure of needing to leave up to its name--The Saltwater Tank of Horrors.

PLEASE let the new tank not follow in the footsteps of the other . . . I really don't need the blog material.

All Around the Random Tree

Update from the Fishtank of Horrors: The last time we checked in on the little fishies, there had been a bit of a domestic altercation of the Clown fish kind. It seemed that Belly had quite enough of The B*tch's crap and had done a little fighting back. Well, a few days later, Belly went REAL crazy. Instead of calling the fishy police and filing a victim statement, he/she went all vigilante and MURDERED The B*tch. Yup, the B*tch went from being Queen of the tank to be Queen of the throne very suddenly. I'm pretty sure the jury will see that Belly was acting out of self defense, but the trial isn't scheduled for a few months.

Further Proof that I am a Dork: If you happen to one day be cutting raisin bread for your two-year old and she is a wee bit impatient with the process and the shrill yelling freaks you out so much that you nearly chop off a finger, think very hard before slapping a the pretty pink Hello Kitty Band-aid over the bloody gash. You may think that there is no way anyone will notice your princessy moment, but if you have a softball game? EVERYONE will notice the pretty pink kitties and will give you crap about it. That is, of course, entirely a hypothetical situation. It has never happened to me. I only wear manly Band-aids.

About Softball: The Just for the Heck of it softball season has come to a close, and my team found ourselves with a perfect record. Of losing. However, there wasn't a single moment in which it mattered that we couldn't win (or even come close), because we had more fun than any other softball team in the history of softball. No, really. We did.

(Huge thank you goes out to Mr. Husband for being totally cool with being a single parent for a few hours on game days. You rock, sir.)

Falls Under the Category of Completely Unnecessary: The Toddler. Oye, her mouth. She has two new habits that have me looking for a nice rickety bridge to stand on while semis drive by at 100 mph. The less bad of the two is her new variation on, "no." She now says, "nuh-uh." I LOATHE it. I want to scream just hearing the first syllable. One thing no toddler needs is to be able to express "no" in multiple forms. Hate. It.

The other thing she's been doing has me thoroughly screwed. She is beginning her I Want sentences with, "I have an idea!" How the hell do you say no to, "I have an idea! Let's watch Dora!" It's like she's doing me this giant favor by doing the thinking for me and coming up with some sort of genius idea. Hate. it.

Rain Rain Go Over Here, Please: Wal-Hell has been running killer clearance sales on summery toys lately, including a line that has picnic baskets, gardening tools, and rain gear in it. So, we picked up a few items for next year. However, when Alexis decided that she didn't care if it was only 75 degrees out, she was swimming, I put on my Genius Cap and yanked out that rain gear for a little splish-splash fun. It was indeed fun, but now I just want it to pour one day so we can truly get our umbrella on.

Undersea Domestic Violence

And, it's back!

Just when you thought there was nothing more that could happen in the Fishtank of Horrors, a new twisty poo has occurred.

(If you're newish here, there's background here and here. Basically, it's a saltwater tank that doesn't know how to be boring. I LURVE the drama!)

This morning I sauntered into the Toddler's room to feed the fish. Belly (the 1st maroon Nemo fishy) came barreling up to the top, wiggling it's tail and oh! so! eager to see me! Darryl the Worm-eating Stud came darting out. The (nameless) Tiger Goby flitted out, too. There was only one fish missing.

The B*tch.

This was odd. Very odd. The B*tch earned her name because she is the Master of the Saltwater Tank of Horrors. She rules that roost with an iron fin and isn't above smacking the others around a bit if she doesn't like what they are doing. Someday The B*tch will be entering a treatment program for fish who commit domestic violence. She's MEAN. I glanced around in the tank for a minute thinking surely The B*tch couldn't be that good at hiding.

She was nowhere to be found.

So, I sprinkled in a little flake fishy food. Belly chomped and chomped and chomped like a fish on a mission. THAT was strange. Very strange. The B*tch usually gets pissed when Belly eats and a little altercation nearly always ensues. It's kind of like when the fat hooker gets caught by her pimp at the buffet, except that Belly is really a very healthy weight. And not a hooker. As far as I know.

Anyway, I managed to make myself 30 minutes late for work visually scanning the tank for any sign of The B*tch, only to find none. Admittedly, I assumed she was dead and figured I would find her eventually.

After work, I returned to the Fishtank of Horrors. Still no The B*tch. A piece of coral had fallen to the sand bed, so I figured I would fix that and dig around and see if I could find The B*tch under a rock or behind some coral or something.

I found her all right.

The B*tch was COWERING under a rock. By cowering I mean that fish was shaking in it's boots. I chased it out of the little cavern and then it happened.

Belly.

Belly went rushing over to The B*tch and bullied her back into hiding. So I bullied The B*tch back out. Belly bullied her back in. Again and again and around and around we went until I finally decided to just let The B*tch hide if she wants to. Whatever.

The victim has become the aggressor. The pimp has become the hooker hiding under the bed.



(BTW, the snail eggs from our last installment became a tasty Scooby snack for something or other.)

The Return of the Fish Tank of Horrors

Three weeks went by. A whole three weeks in which nothing bizarre happened in the Fish Tank of Horrors. Then, I went and opened my mouth (well, technically fingers) to Trannyhead, and you know what happened.

A new kind of bizarre.

First of all, how about a couple of updates?

Belly and The B*tch (the maroon clownfish): I had full intentions of returning The B*tch, really I did. She was all bagged up, with the bag just floating in the tank, carefully rigged so that she would get fresh water and manage to stay alive. All I had to do was whisp through the house, grab her bag, and whisp down to the store. I figured I would do it tomorrow. And a day passed by. I thought, "tommorow." Then another passed by. Then yet another. And a few more after that. (I'm really good at procrastinating.) Then a weird thing happened: she figured out how to escape. And? She did not tear Belly to shreds. Apparently, spending a week in a plastic bag taught her to cool her jets. So Belly and The B*tch are now co-existing in the Saltwater Fish Tank of Horrors. They still don't like each other, but rather than acting like a couple of gang-bangers, they now act like an old married couple. Every once in a while they cross the line and end up in some sort of domestic dispute, but mostly they are OK. I think that means that Belly has grown a pair of cajones, but it's not like I'm about to personally inspect his nether regions and confirm.



The Worms: Have vanished. Like, totally. The last time I saw one was about two weeks ago, and I caught that bugger and let it die a slow painful death. I attribute the disappearance of my biggest obsession to two things. For one, a while ago I figured out where a large number of them were living and picked off over a dozen in one day. I enjoyed every second of it, too (imagine maniacal laughing--yup, that's me!). Around the same time that happened, we bought a new fish named Darryl (he is a Strawberry Pseudochromis). Darryl is a known worm eater. He was the fourth in a long line of attempts at buying a worm eater, but he has managed to survive. The worms have not. BWHAHAHHAHA!

Speaking of Darryl, here he is:



In front of Darryl is the newest addition to the Fish Tank of Horrors. That white squiggly line on the glass appeared on Tuesday. Upon close inspection, I realized it was eggs. Yes, EGGS. Cause, you know, I absolutely needed to have eggs magically appear in the tank when I had no freakin' idea what put them there.

Of course, I did what anyone would do when faced with a emergency fish tank mystery on their hands, I asked Dr. Google the marine biologist. First he told me I was smoking crack if I thought they were shrimp eggs (wishful thinking, and not of the edible sort--when I wishful think of food, it involves chocolate). Then I thought, hey, maybe Belly and The B*tch have been getting it on when I wasn't looking. Old married couples do that once in a while, you know. Sadly, that also was not the case. I scoped out whether or not it could be worm eggs (shut up, Mr. Husband, I don't need to be told worms don't lay eggs, I figured that out). Nope.

(Wanna know how the worms reproduce? Of course you do. Little pieces fall off of them and become new worms. YUMMY!)

Finally, it dawned on me. Who in that tank actually spends time on the glass? The snails of course. A few clicks later, Dr. Google confirmed that we do in fact have snail eggs in the tank.

I know, that doesn't seem all that horrific.

But! What if all those eggs survive? Is it going to be like snailapalooze in there? Will they take over the tank? Will they figure out how to combine forces and lift the lid so that they can escape and wreak havoc on the Toddler's room? While she's sleeping? Or, will the eggs hatch only for the fish to decide they are hungry for escargot? None of the above?

Only time will tell.

Belly and The B*tch

It's been a while since we last checked in on the Saltwater Tank of Horrors and WOO BOY have the horrors been running rampant as of late. But, before I get into the latest in transgender woes, let's do a little recap for any newbies (and anybody who has a short attention span like me).

We set up a brand spankin' new saltwater aquarium in the Toddler's room last fall. We've had freshwater tanks for eons and have always REALLY wanted to enter into the world of brightly colored fishies and crazy cool corals. The tank has been, um, interesting all along.

First, there was a little bit of a problem with a fish who only ate little sea bugs (technically called copepods, but this isn't a Biology lesson so I don't care what they are "technically" called). He died when we went out of town and the little bugs that were intended to be his lunch took over the tank. Along with that little issue came the realization that we had a major worm problem in the tank as well (Gah! Fine. For you picky technical types, bristle worms. BIG ones.) We still have a worm problem, and you'd be mistaken if you thought I didn't spend hours every week trying to hunt those little jerks down, because I totally do. That's an ongoing OCD thing I've got going on.

Anyway, the last time we checked on the Fishtank of Horrors, I had erroneously purchased a buddy for our original fish, a Nemo fishy named Perc. Sadly, Perc's buddy, Belly, brought with him some sort of disease blah, blah, blah, the whole tank got wiped out. Much crying, sobbing, and punching myself in the face happened.

(For those in the know, we do have an isolation tank--it's occupied by a murderous brittle starfish that I need to find a home for. Neither Mr. Husband nor I can manage to find it in our hearts to just kill the thing and be done with it. So, the isolation tank is off limits unless we want to give the killer starfish a very expensive dinner.)

Anyway.

A few weeks ago, Mr. Husband went out and bought a new Nemo fishy. This time he went with one that was more of a maroon color than orange. Those clever Fish Naming Types call it a Maroon Clownfish. Alexis called it "Belly" because apparently all fish with white stripes are heretoforth to be known as Belly. So, all was well. Then, we decided it was a wee bit too boring in the tank, so I hunted down another Maroon Clownfish.

A very basic Biology lesson about Clownfish would be helpful to set up the next part of the story. All Clownfish are born as Pats. In captivity, the largest one will end up morphing into a female and all of the others will become a males. However, if you pull one of those males out of the tank and toss it in one where it's alone, it'll morph into a female. Clownfish are transgendered little buggers that can go back and forth, but being a female is the preferred state of the Clownfish universe. The main issue with them is that females do not get along with each other. At all. There will be a little jockeying when two strange female Clownfish come together and one of them will end up turning into the lesser sex, a male. It's usually a bumpy road for a day or two, but not really a big deal.

So, we had this little Maroon Clownfish named Belly in the tank. I found it a buddy. Correction: I found HER a buddy. And, the lady at the fish store KNEW I was buying a new Maroon Clownfish to put in with an existing Maroon Clownfish. Yet, she didn't tell me a VERY important detail: Maroon Clownfish are mean mo fo'ers. They are supremely racist and won't tolerate anybody of their own species UNLESS you manage to get a male and a female. I didn't buy a male.

Nope.

We ended up with two female Maroon Clownfish.

Dude, they are ripping each other to shreds. Well, technically Belly is getting ripped to shreds. The B*tch (I named that one) is the meanest freakin' fish I've ever seen. This is two seconds after I dropped The B*tch in with Belly:




That ain't fishy love. That's fishy I'm Going to Rip You Fin to Fin and then Rip You Apart Some More.

So now I have The B*tch quarantined in a kind of not cool way, but I don't have a choice. It seems that neither Belly nor The B*tch is willing to morph into a male. They would rather fight to the death. The B*tch will be going back to the store and we'll be trying to find some other sort of friend, not of the Maroon Clownfish variety, to keep Belly happy.

All this drama and all because neither Belly nor The B*tch is willing to just grow a pair and be a real man.

Random and Stuff

- I have a new goal in life. I would like to go an entire week without something bizarre happening with the Fish Tank of Horrors. When I was cleaning it earlier today, I pulled out a rock and took it into the bathroom to do a little extra scrubbing. I failed to notice the Ghost Crab hanging out in a nook of the rock right up until he (she? it?) suddenly lunged out of the nook right at my face. I jumped out of my skin and my innards ran out of the house and down the street, shrieking the whole way. Mr. Husband is still laughing at me and the neighbors now KNOW I am a freak. If they recognized me without my face, that is.

- A couple people asked how I keep managing to get tickets to the Penguins games. It's simple, really. TicketMaster.com is scared of me. If I sit down at the appointed hour for any sort of event, there is a 90% chance that I will walk away with a pair of tickets. The other 10% of the time I beat TicketMaster to a bloody pulp, and that seems to help my future chances of scoring tickets. I've had the magic touch my entire life, which explains how it is that I managed to see New Kids on the Block and Nelson in concert back in the day. For the record, North Dakota isn't exactly the land of quality concert choices. In fact, I had to drive six hours to Minneapolis to see New Kids. Look how nice I am, giving you oodles of reasons to mock me. Enjoy.

- If you haven't started using Twitter yet, you are SO missing out. AFF tells the tale here.

- This thing where the Toddler hauls her doll Baby Shell all over creation is kind of cute right now, but I smell a pain in the arse on the horizon. Methinks I might just have to go buy a twin, just to be safe.

Getting a Few Things Off My Chest

Confession #1: There is still a fully-decorated miniature Christmas tree in Alexis' bedroom. Every time I go upstairs, I see it and think that I should go down to the garage and grab the plastic tub for it. Every time I figure that I'll do it right after I do whatever it is that I went upstairs to do, operating on the theory that if I stop what I'm currently doing, I'll forget to do it. So I finish whatever, and then promptly forget why I wanted to go back downstairs. Putting away said tree is a two-minute job. Literally, it just needs put in the tub and escorted back to the garage full o' Christmas love. At the rate it's happening, though, I suspect I might as well just leave it up for next year.

Confession #2: Our living room usually looks like a bomb went off in it. I stopped cleaning up the toys or asking the Toddler to clean up her toys about a month ago. Strangely, nothing really looks different than it did when I still fought the battle. I think there might be a valuable lesson in there somewhere, but I can't seem to find it in my sleep-deprived state.

Confession #3: Treating a sick fish who suddenly became unsick, but that I treated anyway just to be safe, resulted in the death of $100 worth of saltwater fish. Now I'm the one who is sick. Project Saltwater Tank of Horrors is not going well.

Confession #4: I'm still trying to convince the Toddler that she likes NKOTB so that I can blame her when I buy the new album. She's not cooperating with my brainwashing attempts.

Confession #4: I told a bold-faced lie to a daycare teacher today. Since Shell left, potty training has gone to the crapper (horrible pun intended). The Toddler was going potty when she was at school, but hasn't since Shell's last day because no one is taking her. I tried asking nice. I tried friendly reminders. I tried back-handed remarks. I'm giving the "she's potty-trained at home" lie thing a try before I resort to drastic measures. If I don't start seeing some potty training going on at daycare, I'm sending her in underwear. Bwahahaha! It should only take a few puddles before they figure out to take her every once in a while. Why, yes, I am evil. I'll make sure they are Dora underwear so we can add a little pee on Dora's face to the shenanigans.

Confession #5: I have spent the past half hour trying to convince the Toddler to show me how she dances to Dancing with the Stars. Obviously, I forgot Rule #1 of parenting: Under no circumstances whatsoever will you have any control over your kids at any time. Yeah, I'll get Mount Rushmore moved to Canada before I get her to dance on command. This is the best I could do:



Confession #6: I totally laughed when she fell. There's a special place in hell waiting for me, I just know it.

Sunday Notes on Monday

Yeah, so I fell behind on a few things, so I'm catching up tonight. Deal with it.

- Because TicketMaster recognizes that I am the master of the online ticket-buying universe, I was able to acquire a pair of tickets to yesterday's Penguins playoff game. Lesser beings would have sent the Toddler to a babysitter and made the game an adult activity, but we are brave souls who were willing to see if she could go 3 for 3 on being well-behaved while watching the Pens win. She did. She spent part of the game watching the "Penins skatin," part of the game playing with the completely unnecessary earplugs I brought in preparation for playoff level noise, and the rest of the game searching high and low for Iceburgh. Alexis rocks and so do the Penguins.

- The only thing worse than having mother truckin' worms in your saltwater aquarium is catching one of those worms (a BIG one, too!), sticking it in a little cup with the goal of flushing it in a few minutes, forgetting about it for two days, and then having to smell the odorific nastiness that is a worm two days decayed. I was thisclose to barfing when I flushed that sucker. I swear those stupid worms just keep finding ways to get under my skin.

- Alexis has a new favorite television program, Dancing with the Stars. The girl Waltzes and Fox Trots and generally shimmies and shakes her little hiney all over the living room when it's on. I need to get video because it nearly makes me fall over laughing every time. Have I ever mentioned that she dances about as well as Elaine on Seinfeld? Yeah. I need video.

- I think it's about darn time the Blogging Moms of Pittsburgh (and anybody else who is close enough to drive on in) held a little get-together. I mean, I've been wanting to meet you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and you and I already know you and you are awesome, so why not get us all together in one place at one time? Here's the thing, though, I don't like to do decisions. So, jump over here and we'll figure this whole thing out. Spread the word, too, so that we can have as much fun as possible. (I know the layout is beyond wretched and fully intend to fix it soon. Just pretend you didn't notice how very very bad it is, mmkay?) Let's keep the discussions of said get-together over there so as to not make our non-Pittsburgh friends incredibly jealous. Which they should be.

CRAPTACULAR and Stuff

Ever have one of those days that just screams "I AM CRAPTACULAR--GO BACK TO BED!" so loudly and so consistently that you start to wonder why the heck you are continuing to go through the motions? Of course you have. I had one today.

It started this morning with a glance into everyone's favorite fish tank of horrors. There was a fish missing, specifically Perc, the Nemo fishy (technically called a Percula, but I find Nemo fishy to be much more descriptive and cute). Now, I recently caught the icky brittle starfish pink-headed, confirming my suspicions that I had hit the lottery and managed to get one of the really rare and hardly seen predator starfish. So my first thought was that the starfish was enjoying a $30 dessert to top off the $20 pink-headed meal it enjoyed last week. But no, Perc had managed to get into the filters in the bank of the tank. How? I dunno. He probably had help from the ghost crab or something.

Anyhoo, I grabbed the net and scooped up Perc so that I could put him back in the main part of the tank. That's when the little jerk decided to go all toddler on me by refusing my help. He leaped across the room and landed with a flop on the wood floor. Cue Toddler pointing and yelling "OOK MOMMY, PERC FLYING!" I found that to be really helpful as I tried to find the bright orange blob on the floor. I don't touch slimy things with my bare hands, so I grabbed the rubber gloves (What? You don't keep rubber gloves in your kids' room? You totally should.) I scooped him up only for him to find the energy to flop across the room again. Now go back and read that sentence three more times because that is how many tries it took me to finally pick the stupid thing up and drop it into the fish tank.

Where it promptly dropped to the bottom faster than a brick with a lead weight tied to its not foot.

A very furry, dirty brick.

Um, yeah, the fish at one point flopped under Alexis' bed where we like to keep a few spare pounds of cat fur around just in case one of them suddenly starts experiencing male pattern baldness. We're always thinking of their feelings, you know. Anyway, Perc sat perfectly still on the bottom of the tank. The jerkface starfish apparently smelled blood in the water because he went flying over to the side of the tank where Perc was chilling. Just as I thought I was going to have to intervene unless I wanted to watch some fishy carnage, Perc suddenly sprung to life and started swimming around like his tail fin was on fire.

(For the record, Perc now appears to be fine. He managed to swim off his fur coat and seems absolutely perfect. I expect that I won't be saying the same for the starfish in a day or two. He might be getting to go for a swim in our lovely sewer system just as soon as someone can catch him.)

All the fishy commotion led to a late departure which led to a late arrival at daycare. I LOVE LOVE LOVE when I'm late getting to daycare and one of the teachers finds it appropriate to give me crap. Breakfast ends promptly at 8:00, in case you didn't know. Except that I do know because I have been told that exact same thing at least eleventy bazillion times. It's a lie. I know it's a lie because breakfast starts at 7:45 and there is no way in H E double hockey sticks all those kids manage to get served and eat their breakfast that fast. It's common sense. Oh, and a little birdy told me it's a lie. So shut up and feed my kid, thankyouverymuch.

Off to work I went where my CRAPTACULAR day continued. The most craptacular part of it was when I got to spend my lunch at a barbecue not eating hamburgers and hot dogs because I don't eat dead critters. Meanwhile, I wanted to be spending my lunch in greenhouse bliss. My favorite greenhouse opened for the season today and THAT event is considered a national holiday in my head. This year, I did not celebrate that holiday and I am bummed.

The latest in the CRAPTACULAR was when I was trying to eat my happy little bowl of soup for dinner. The Toddler, who was previously totally content eating at her very own table in a different time zone, came waddling over bearing a mouth full of half-chewed carrots. She decided she HAD to sit in my lap and use her entire body to block my soup. As my yummy soup quietly chanted "eat me," the Toddler tried to say that she wanted some, but all I heard was woooah wooooah woooah because of the half-chewed carrots that were crammed into her piehole and falling out of her face. I figured I should throw a "No" out there to which she responded by shoving her entire chubby little hand into my bowl of soup. And stir. And slosh. And PLOP goes a hunk of half-eaten carrots into my bowl. Such a sweet kid.

I am now going to obey today and GO TO BED like I should have when it told me the first time.

Yeah, That Makes Sense

There's plenty of evidence to indicate that I'm not an idiot. I got good grades in school, I went to college on an academic scholarship, and I work with pretty complicated technical concepts at work. The only thing is, I am an idiot. A BIG idiot.

This morning when I went into Alexis' room to feed the fish in the saltwater tank, I noticed a crab sitting at an odd angle behind the rocks. I studied it for a minute or two and when it didn't budge, I cleverly deduced that it was not a living crab. So I moved the rocks, scooped the corpse up with a net, and gave him a proper clockwise funeral. Flusherooooo!

I didn't say anything to Mr. Husband because I have found a shrimp corpse and another crab corpse in the past few weeks, and I didn't really need to hear him tell me that I need to figure out what is wrong with the tank. I ran every water quality test under the sun this morning and couldn't find anything wrong, so him asking me if I checked the pH, ammonia, nitrates, nitrites, calcium, iodine, buffering capacity, blah, blah, blah would have just annoyed me to no end.

We spent our day out running various errands, including important tasks like buying Strawberry Shredded Wheat so that Alexis doesn't fall victim to SSW deprivation tomorrow. When we got back home, I went straight upstairs to feed the fish and turn off the light for the night. The instant I dropped a couple of chunks of frozen fish food into the tank, I noticed a little claw come swiping out from under a rock. I stared at that damn crab for a solid five minutes trying to figure out how it not only returned from the dead, but found it's way all the way through the sewer system, across the hall, and back into the aquarium. I finally decided that it was either a ghost, or we must have had a crab in the tank that we didn't know about.

So, Mr. Husband came upstairs and I told him we have a ghost in the tank. He looked at the little crab and then said, "He probably just shed his exoskeleton."

Oh, yeah, that would be slightly more logical than a ghost crab returning to a crappy little tank in the afterlife, now wouldn't it?

Now I'm trying to figure out if anything ever died, or if I've been pulling out shed exoskeletons, obsessing for hours every day over water quality, and cursing the death of a bunch of over-priced critters for no reason.

I am an idiot.

When You're Scatterbrained and You Know It, Go Random

I have too many ideas floating around in my head and can't seem to focus on just one, so I bringeth the randometh updates:

- Alexis has made it a habit to sleep though the night in her own little bed on the weekends and loudly meanders into my airspace on weekdays. You know, the days when I have to get up by 6:30. I'm going to pay her back for it by giving her first born child a professional drum set for his or her second birthday.

- The stupid ants continue to be a problem, albeit nowhere near as bad as last year. Despite my widespread use of drastic measures, I'm finding one or two of the little jerks crawling around in our house every day. Of course, along with those one or two lively ones are five to six dead ones, so I think that means I win. Sort of.

- A mother truckin' worm had the audacity to taunt me yesterday by poking its self out of a hole in the new aquarium. It was a big guy and I would have LOVED to have donned the gloves, grabbed the tweezers, and smashed his little booty. The only problem was that he (she? it?) was about 1/2 inch from the icky, ugly, nasty, gross, ucky brittle starfish. That starfish creeps me out far more than the worms (it's in there because their good scavengers and do a decent job of keeping the tank clean, functionality over beauty, baby) and my hands, even with gloves, absolutely positively will not be going that close to it. Stupid genius worm.

- I chuckled a little bit at Sandy's comment on yesterday's post that she was impressed that Alexis sat still that long for the daffodil photos. Heh. I can suggest that the Toddler sit in a particular spot, just like I can suggest that Mount Rushmore be moved to Alaska. Trust me, Mount Rushmore will move before that kid just sits around and lets me take pictures of her.

What really happened is that I went over to our hillside to take photos of the daffodils. I'm hoping to do a half decent job of keeping a garden diary this year, even if it is all in the form of photos. Of course the crew saw what I was up to, and all butted in like the self-centered creatures that they are. Alexis, for her part, was squealing, "Ook, Mommy, flowers!" while gently groping their delicate little blooms. I decided to use it as an opportunity to photograph her widdle hands since I'm obsessed with them. All told, she might have sat there for 37.6 seconds. Mr. Canon is a Rock Star of a camera and will take photos really really fast, so he captured a few dozen during that 37.6 seconds. When Mr. Canon does sweet things like that, it makes me want to make out with him. And hide my undergarments in his case.








Why, yes, Meg is a photo whore.

- Reminder: If you haven't entered the contest, get moving! If you have, go do it again! There are two prizes up for grabs and there will be choices involved with those prizes. Since I'm in a pleasant mood, I'll even give you a hint to one of the choices (shhh, Karen, don't tell!).

All the Fun Stuff is in the Kid's Room

Since there simply can never be enough animals in this house, quite a while ago Mr. Husband and I decided to put a saltwater aquarium in Alexis' room. I have to admit, despite the fact that it cost a small fortune to set the thing up, it has turned out to be a good decision. Countless mornings I have trudged into Alexis' room to wake her up only to find that she was already wide awake, standing next to the aquarium staring at her fish.

At one point in time, she had two fish. There was the Nemo-looking fish that Daddy picked out, and the crazy cool Mandarin Goby that I selected. Daddy did much research before picking his fish. I saw a psychedelic bright-colored thing and bought it on the spot. Irony of all ironies, my fish turned out to be a meat-eater. So the fourteen-year vegetarian had to set out and find sources of live animals for Mandy (my fishy's name) to eat. I was hatching brine shrimp, buying crazy expensive INVISIBLE things called pods online, and cutting up pieces of frozen dead gunk to feed him. Then we went to Indiana for Thanksgiving, and Mandy died of starvation because he ran out of food sources while we were gone. I probably should mention that I had ordered Mandy a delicious bag full of hundreds of invisible things that arrived while we were gone. Mandy's food died in the mailbox while we were in Indy and while he was starving to death. How's that for a whole bunch of senseless deaths at one time?

Admittedly, I was sort of relieved when Mandy kicked the bucket. Keeping live food sources around for him was some serious work, and not cheap. He was going through $20 worth of food per month. The two cats combined don't eat $20 worth of food in a month, and one of them is a fat slob. I never once enjoyed the whole raising brine shrimp process, especially when the goal was to watch a fish devour hundreds of them in a matter of minutes. His death was a good thing. Really.

Remember I said I thought the invisible things died in the mailbox? I actually dumped the bag in the aquarium for kicks, just on the off chance that one or two had survived. I think it's safe to say at least two survived. It turns out the invisible things grow to be less invisible. Then some of them grow to be almost big. Those no longer invisible things? Look just like bugs and worms. Gross, nasty, little bugs and worms. And now that there is no predator for icky critters, they are proliferating. It has reached the point where I'm no longer willing to stick my hands in the tank to clean it because that would be like sticking my hand in a bucket full of insects.

Then tonight I thought I would research what the worm-like things that are in the tank are called. Some of them have gotten pretty big--as in at least four inches long. Guess what? The damn things are not only considered pests, they can grow to 12 inches and have been known to BITE HUMANS.

Good thing the tank is in the Toddler's room and not mine, because you couldn't pay me to sleep next to a tank filled with bugs and man-eating worms. The Toddler just better hope her new sleeping buddy, Coal, will protect her.