Goodbye Desmond Paco

I have been wanting a dog for a long time. I have dreamed about owning a beagle (would be named Frank) or a daschund (would be named Ruby) or some mutt who needed me (Olive or Doris) for a long time. I would also settle for a cat. I would have two (Patty and Mayonnaise, Mayo for short, after my favorite cartoon character of all time). You get the idea, I want a pet. Something to nurture. But of course, my building, fascist, heartless, jerks that they are, will not allow pets. And admittedly, it would be unkind to put a dog or cat in my shoebox of an apartment. To both the animal and the carpet.

So, last weekend, I decided I would buy a fish. Desmond Paco. Des and I were the best of friends immediately. I bought him the expensive jewels for his bowl instead of the cheap gravel because he seemed like that sort of guy. When he came home with me we watched Lost and he liked it, I would imagine because of all the water. However his show of choice actually ended up being "Kendra." (I can't blame him--who can resist?)

I owned Desmond Paco for approximately 26 hours before he died. I came home from work and started talking to him about my day, you know, the usual things one says to a fish. Then my friend stopped by and of course I introduced them.

"I think your fish is dead," my friend said.
"Oh no he's not. He just doesn't move that much." I looked.

Desmond P was pretty still. **Frantic shaking of the bowl and tapping commenced. Becoming more desperate, I reached in the bowl and tapped him on the back. After this, he immediately flipped over, and floated to the top of the bowl.

Explosion of Emotion.

I cried for about 10 minutes because I felt like such a failure of a mother. My boyfriend told me his death was due to DC water, which is basically poisoned with chlorine. Apparently there is so much crap (literally, crap) in the water, they have to add huge amounts of chlorine in order to head off an epidemic. He also told me that "it's very normal for fish to die quickly."

This series of comments led to me throwing a tantrum and stating that, "My life will only be disappointment." In an attempt to comfort me, my boyfriend said, "I'll buy you another one, it was only $3.50." This was only more upsetting and only led to further tantrums. You see, my boyfriend is the stable one. Even-keeled, approaches situations analytically as oppose to emotionally. I tend to resort to the most extreme conclusion possible

(this happens to me in many situations, and I will outline a few 1) the man walking behind me absolutely has a knife in his pocket and is planning on chasing me into an alley. 2) the woman in CVS hates me. I know this because to every other customer she is very friendly and hands them their bags. With me, she shoves my tampons across the counter and disregards me entirely. Either she hates me, or does not like feminine products. I would entertain the latter if she was male. 3) The pain I get in my side when I run is absolutely cancer. It can't be that I am out of shape. It's cancer. 100%. 4) I'm certain that my job is shaving years off my life. Every stressful interaction is a day less I will live. I sometimes imagine the following while sitting in a pointless meeting: I'm 30 minutes away from finding the buried treasure and suddenly, I realize I am going to die in 29 minutes. I would remember all those wasted minutes in meetings and think, 'BLAST! If only I could have had one less meeting!! The treasure would be finally be mine!!' This is an unlikely scenario, as I rarely use the word 'blast.' 5) Oh, my fish died? That must mean that the rest of my life will only be one big, fat disappointment. That's the only logical conclusion.)

Many people have consoled me, told me their own fish-death stories. But I miss my Desmond Paco. And irrational as I can sometimes be, his untimely death deeply saddened me and I don't think I will forget his long, sad float to the top of his bowl, nor the plop he made when my boyfriend dropped him in the toilet. I felt a little guilty--making his final resting place the very water that murdered him--but, as I have been told, he was just a fish, and fish die.

Des and I just hanging out.




BFFs

The Art of Basket Weaving (plus a slew of nonsensical desires)

I was remembering the other day how this time of year felt when I was 17. I remember a space and an openness and afreedom I'm not sure exists in the city. I know I romanticize my childhood because I distinctly remember hating my life and my little Kansas town. But now, looking back, I see how lucky I was to have access to unpaved roads--to have been able, on a daily basis, to experience landscapes still untainted. When I think about growing up there, I become unreasonably nostalgic and even more aware of the claustrophobia and structure of my current life and landscape.

I have this fantasy. It's just me and I'm barefoot and it's one of those perfect days weather wise. The kind that happen maybe twice a year. In the fantasy I'm just walking. I'm not worried about anything. There isn't any noise, there isn't any stress. There's just me and my bare feet, and the soft grass beneath. Exciting fantasy, but at this point in my life I can't think of anything better. Because I am tired of the following:
1) crowded sidewalks 2) making small talk 3) honking horns 4) bus exhaust 5) people who have no idea that they are blocking a doorway and then become irritated when you say "excuse me." 6) Automatic bathrooms--6.5)the kind that flush for you (sometimes) 6.75) and spit water and paper towels out at you (sometimes). 7-10) The callous that is forming on my thumb from too much time on my computer. 11) Ringtones and 12-187) voicemail. 187-Infinity) Constant noise.

I'm just tired.

I was watching this episode of "No Reservations" and he was in French Polynesia. And he went to this place where they just fished for what they wanted to eat or picked it from the trees. And they weaved plants together to make plates. And they didn't have electricity, just torches and fire pits and guitars and their own voices to entertain themselves. I wondered why I live my life the way I do when I really want to be a feral person. Removed from society, wild, no responsibility to anything or anyone. Just living on my tiny piece of land, fishing in the ocean. It just seems like every problem I encounter these days is so man-made, so avoidable, so unimportant. I feel like we've made life so unbelievably exhausting and I don't really know what for.

Who knows. One of these days I might just disappear without any warning. Set up shop on an island somewhere. If I can find one that is resort-less, which may at this point be impossible. If that doesn't work out, perhaps I will just wander around living in tree houses. Or with wolves.

Disclaimer: This entry was written after the series finale of LOST.

Food Fight

There are all kinds of remorse. I have experienced many kinds. The quitting kind, the drinking kind, the boy kind, the money kind. But I think the one that plagues me, I mean absolutely plagues me, is the eating kind.

I used to run around all the time so I could eat 8 burritos and then I would go to basketball practice and I would be fine. Also, I was 16. Now, I still have the desire to eat 8 burritos in one sitting but do absolutely nothing to burn it off. And I'm not 16 any more.

In addition to my desire to eat 8 burritos every day of my life, I hate working out. This is something I have learned about myself. I hate to do anything before 7 am, and anything (besides eat and drink and watch ridiculous tv) after 6 pm. This leaves my lunch break. Which is basically like my recess for the day and I am hesitant to give up.

For me, eating goes something like this. I'm good all day long. Healthy breakfast, ok lunch. 3 diet cokes/day. (addiction). Then I get to dinner and I am just ready to feast. Every day on my walk home I tell myself I will eat a normal amount. The amount that a normal human being would eat. And then, an hour and a half later, I'm sprawled across my couch, rubbing my full belly. Poor belly, she doesn't know any better. I equate my love of food to a dysfunctional romantic relationship. I'm good all day. My willpower is strong, and then at night, I give in and am suddenly making passionate love to a tub of pasta and washing it down with 3 glasses of wine.

I love food. I love it. I have recently started cooking more and this is only making the problem worse. I can now make even more things to fatten myself up. It is like Hansel and Gretl except there aren't any children, only a witch (me) and I'm fattening myself up...and I will probably soon trip and fall into my own oven. So it's not like Hansel and Gretl, it's more like The Chubby Old Lady and Her Oven. All this combined with my aversion to working out leaves me wondering if I will someday be 800pounds.

So. I have a new goal. It is to find a physical activity that I actually like. Right now, I'm leaning toward roller-skating. Mostly because I found these: