Drops of Awesome

Personal Blog of Author Kathryn Thompson

Fare Thee Well JackAgain

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Poor Jack is dead. Poor JackAgain is dead. I noticed him laying on the bottom of the bowl a few days ago, his untouched pellets swollen on the surface of the water. This is not unusual for JackAgain. He will sometimes lie on the bottom of the bowl for days at a time as if sleeping or in deep thought, only to startle when the glass is tapped and then sink back down to the bottom.
This picture taken 2.5 years ago
I think he was always prone to depression, a little fish stuck in a bowl with no chance of escape.

When I tapped on the glass this time, his lifeless body just swayed with the motion of the water but nary a fin did he flap. I tried again, this time noticing that his body seemed to be covered in sort of a waxy film.

So I told the kids. They took it okay. Laylee was off and running in a few seconds. Magoo seemed fine until suddenly he was not. His eyes filled with tears. “JackAgain is dead?” he cried. “Yes buddy, I’m afraid he is. But it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Magoo reached out for some mama loves and I picked his giant boy body up in my arms and held him like a baby. Seeing the attention he was getting, Laylee came running over. “I can’t believe he’s dead,” she faux-sobbed in a voice vaguely reminiscent of a half-way decent impression of real sadness. “I just can’t believe it. Oh JackAgain!”

My eyes did not do a full roll. They just sort of drifted heavenward and my eyelashes only fluttered a bit as I reached out a hand to touch her un-Oscar-worthy play-grieving arm. “Yeah. We’ll sure miss him,” I lied.

So we held a bowl-side flush funeral for the fish. Dan asked for advice on what he should say and we came up with a Finding Nemo meets The Lion King sort of Christian sermon about how all drains lead to the ocean and he’ll then be eaten by a bigger fish in the great circle of life but his spirit will live on in fishy heaven. You see, I have a firm belief in an afterlife and resurrection but I’ll be darned if I could explain exactly what JackAgain’s spirit was doing at that moment. Honestly I didn’t much care.

I have disliked that fish with a fervent dislikishness since nearly the day we brought him home almost THREE YEARS AGO. We had gone through a series of fish rather rapidly. They would die or eat each other and we’d get a new one. I was sick of cleaning fish poop out of the bowl but each time I’d cave and buy another to quell Laylee’s grief. When she was 3, it was more believable.

The day I bought JackAgain, I told Dan he was the last fish I’d ever buy. In 3-6 months when he kicked the bucket, I was done. The kids loved him for about 2 minutes every couple of weeks when their friends were over but other than that, it was just me, Jack, and the stinking bowl of fish ish. He couldn’t do anything cool. I sensed he was unhappy in his little glass prison. He looked weird. My confessions of periodically forgetting to care for him earned me nasty comments from pet lovers who felt I should not be allowed to reproduce considering my inhumane treatment of Betta fish.

At some point, around when I read the first book in the Twilight series, I began to wonder about how he was living so long. Maybe he wasn’t alive but some sort of undead fish who would “live” forever, pooping and tormenting me, long after my children were grown and gone.

Apparently he was un-undead because now he’s actually dead and I think we all know that’s impossible for an un. I can’t say there wasn’t some glee as I cleaned out his bowl for the last time, running his little glass rocks and plastic plants through the dishwasher to remove any deadness that might have rubbed off on them.

Since he left no last will and testament, his home and other personal effects will be donated to my neighbor Natasha, the marine biologist, to be used in some sort of humane and deeply noble project that will possibly absolve me from openly admitting my failure to love one of God’s creatures.

Laylee’s Mite

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Laylee’s been trying to interpret and apply the biblical story of the widow’s mite. I blogged about it over at the Parenting Post.

…She replied, “Maybe Jesus just decided he didn’t want people to give as much money to the treasury anymore so he was happy that she understood what he wanted and only gave a little bit.”…

[read more at Parenting.com]

In Mourning

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I’ve been struggling with a stomach bug this past week and recently its friend the head and chest cold came to join the party so I pretty much feel like pathetic death on toast.

But worse than that, my laptop experienced a hardware failure and has been gutted and shipped off to the computer hospital for emergency surgery. I weep for it. I crave it’s closeness. I find myself in mourning.

Out of respect for my injured friend and due to the earth-shattering plague rocking my body systems, I may not be blogging for a while. But like the terminator I will be back eventually and for the time being I’ll blog at least once a week over at parenting with a link here to my musings.

Today I wrote about time. Laylee’s recently learned how to tell time and our lives will never be the same again. [click to read more at Parenting]

When we put my laptop, let’s call him Timmy, to rest in his Fedex casket, we needed to trim some of the shipping materials for a better fit. Magoo took the leftover pieces and fashioned them into some sort of weapon laser thing. When he was done with it, he left it on my bathroom vanity. Do you think it’s a sign? Because it’s sort of creeping me out.

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I am Not Responsible for Josh Groban

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Dan has a hard time distinguishing between Josh Groban and Michael Bublé. I can understand the difficulty. They are both male and they both sing songs and both of their careers were created by the United States of Oprah, respectively. The difference as I see it is that Josh Groban is Oprah’s version of Andrea Bocelli and Michael Bublé is Oprah’s version of Harry Connick Junior. He still gets them confused so I say Groban — Vibrato, Bublé — bubbly brass section.

I’m pretty over Josh Groban at this point and it’s not because most of his songs sound identical or even the vibrato, because although he has a lot of vibrato, it is not constant and therefore can be tolerated. I’m not sure what it is but I’m just over him. Except for one song.

Remember When It Rained.

I love this song. I have no idea what it’s about. I think it may have religious connotations and I know one of you will google-wiki it for me and tell me what it means but I’d rather not know. In my mind, I prefer to think that it’s about making out in the rain, one of those completely unrealistic kisses where you just run to someone through the pouring rain, probably in the dark, likely wearing a dark-colored prom dress, and the first thing to connect is your lips and you’re maybe crying but you can’t tell because the rain is pouring down on your faces… or something like that. It’s not like I envision this scene every time I hear the song and sing along at the top of my lungs while planning the rain kissing chapter of my next book or anything.

So today I was driving along when that particular song came on my Zune completely by happenstance and for some odd reason my mind was drawn to that particular line of thought (the rain kissing thing), which caught me completely off-guard and I was forced to sing along with such fervor that I lost track of my speedometer. Blame it on the strings. Blame it on the rain. Blame it on Josh Groban if you must but I feel fairly convinced that I was not responsible for my temporary breaking of the traffic laws of this good land.

As I slowed down I started thinking, what would I have told the officer if I’d been pulled over during my…erm…performance/brainstorming session? I think I would have had to tell the truth. “Josh Groban made me do it. He’s in league with Dr. Phil and Oprah. I had no choice.”

In high school I had a friend who totaled his father’s car while taking it off a jump with some friends. He proceeded to tell his dad matter-of-factly that he was not responsible. He only did it because he was listening to the Beastie Boys at the time.

I imagine my Josh Groban defense would go over about as well. I haven’t seen that boy in… a while…

Promises Promises

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I’ll try to stop actually hurting you as I brush your hair, if you try not to wince and scream out when you feel the brush’s aura approaching your head.

Read more of the promises I’m making to my kids this week over at Parenting.com.

Facebook Apps Are Scary

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I will come out right now and just say it – Facebook Apps freak me out. I just denied a request from my sister to say we were related on an app. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I AM SISTERS WITH MEG! But I will not add the “family tree” application to my Facebook page. Not a bit. Her request was denied.

Do you want me to be one of your “best girls,” kill a zombie with you, throw a pumpkin at your neck, join a group to remove the mayor of Anaconda, MT from office, or take a quiz to show how similar we are so we can take our kindred spiritness to the next level? I’m sorry but I just can’t do it anymore.

I’ve done it a couple of times and then I’m always left wondering, “Is that app harvesting all of my personal information for nefarious purposes, the pure wicked evilness of which I cannot yet imagine?”

So now I just hit “deny” every time. It’s not because I don’t like you or think your purple roses to help fight toenail cancer aren’t noble and attractive, I just don’t want to be harvested by the aliens or whoever it is that creates all these apps in the first place.

Sorry mom. I’m still your daughter. I just won’t declare it in a Facebook app.

I also refuse to claim my 1,000,000 inheritance from my long lost Uncle in Sri Lanka. There’s just too much risk to these ventures. I’ve seen Dateline. I know.

To the Future Mothers on the Bachelor

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I like a lot of you. I don’t know you. I don’t readily admit to watching your shenanigans and exploits. I just happen to catch the show every Monday night at 8pm PST completely by accident. You are not super-real to me but just real enough I thought I’d write you all a letter on the internet, from one mom to a group of future moms who are, like, so ready to be moms.

First off, Jason doesn’t plan the dates. When he takes you out in a blimp, a jet, a parachute, a helicopter, a largish kite, shoots you from a cannon, or in some way takes you soaring to new heights with a view of the world you’d never imagined was possible, he is not the mastermind behind the experience. He has a team of PRODUCERS PLANNING EVERYTHING FOR HIM.

When you’re married, the team of producers will no longer live at your house, feeding him lines, starting the campfires, decorating his mansion and making every moment perfect. Jason will likely change back into a normal human male, a human male with a 5-year-old son whom he loves more than you.

And it’s not that heating up your own Papa Murphy’s while desperately seeking a vegetable to feed the child and then trying to get him in bed early enough that you’ll still have energy left for quality time with your shmoop isn’t fun. It’s just different. He will likely never shoot you out of a cannon or write your name in the sky again, at least not on weeknights. He may ask you to do his laundry though.

Secondly, nothing prepares you for motherhood, not watching shirtless Jason on TV playing with his son, not holding your friend’s kid until it starts to squeak ever-so-slightly, not obtaining a college degree, not “getting all the partying out of your system,” not even being hosed down with boogers and diaper fillins for 6 months straight while someone screams in your ear at the top of their lungs. Nothing prepares you. I’m not sayin’ it ain’t wonderful because it is. You’re just not, like, so ready. No one is.

My Baby LISTENS

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This morning Magoo emerged from his room with a large stuffed turtle tucked under his arm, rather than the small mangy dog he’s been carrying around for weeks as his “baby.”

“This is my new baby,” he announced.

“Oh really? What happened to your old baby?”

“He never LISTENS to me. This baby LISTENS to me so he’s my new baby now.”

I think this is good criteria for choosing a baby. As she’s drooling in the Bjorn and I’m expounding my great treasures of knowledge, is the baby really listening? Well if not… You never know who I’ll end up with the next morning. It may be a turtle or a purple frog but a baby who doesn’t listen doesn’t last very long in this household.

So he took his baby to church where he cuddled him, tossed him around and eventually dropped him on the floor. I didn’t see much talking or listening and I wondered how long the relationship would last.

Laylee retrieved the wide-eyed turtle infant from the ground and began moving it around in a pattern resembling play but which did not appear enjoyable in any way. And then she sneezed.

I know she sneezed because I heard the sound next to me and a moment later she was holding the turtle 3 inches from my face with a guilty, teeth-baring grin/grimace on her face. There was a largish boogie on the turtle.

Magoo hadn’t noticed the desecration yet and she whispered, “What should I DO!?”

I searched my bag in vain for tissues or wipes and then told her quietly to take the turtle to the bathroom and wipe him down with a damp paper towel. This seemed to please her, the idea of having any business important enough to excuse her from a church meeting giving an inexplicable maturity and importance to her very being. As she marched with dignity from the room, Magoo noticed the baby-napping that had just occurred.

“Where’s she taking my BABY!?”

“Your baby has a boogie on his head and she’s gone to clean it off,” I whispered.

At this point, please ask me how much I had gotten out of the church meeting? Not a lot. I did have a renewed testimony of baby wipes, even when your human babies are past the point of diaperhood but other than that, it had been a pretty unfulfilling service.

And Magoo seemed strangely pleased over the drama with his baby. Of course he longed for his safe return, but a BOOGIE ON HIS HEAD?! That was obviously scandalous and cool in a way that only a 3 or 13-year-old boy can truly appreciate.

5 minutes passed.

Laylee returned with the turtle, holding it boog-first towards me, the grimace still on her face.

“In the bathroom there was a sign that said ”˜DO NOT something-I-couldn’t-read.’ I was worried that I wasn’t allowed to wash the boogie off his head.”

How, oh how did I keep a straight face as I told my semi-literate daughter that I was pretty sure, like 100% sure, that the sign did not say, “DO NOT WIPE BOOGIES OFF THE HEADS OF STUFFED BABY TURTLES IN THIS BATHROOM?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I’m pleased to say that the baby has now been cleansed and his listening skills are as good as ever. Perhaps better.