“Pack a swimsuit,” my husband shouted from the bedroom as I threw a week’s worth of black tunics and leggings into my suitcase. A swimsuit?? For skiing in Utah? Sweetheart, this body is swimsuit ready perhaps one day of the year, and that’s usually after a violent stomach bug. Ain't no way I'm stuffing myself into Lycra to then float around in some bacteria-ridden hot tub stew.
Then there’s my neighbor Robert, who is also with us on our ski trip. I watch in awe as he consumes TWO Double Quarter Pounders WITH cheese from my favorite French restaurant, Le McDonald’s. I’m no mathematician, but I believe that equals around one full pound of pure beef goodness. And he’s skinny. Skinny skinny.
This ski trip was monumental for two reasons: Number one, I don't ski. And number two, upon our return, there would be a fully functioning fish tank waiting for Millie in her bedroom, complete with silk aquarium plants, blue rocks, a filter, a pump, and a bunch of other expensive nonsense. My mother was taking care of treating and conditioning the water and all that would be left to do was for Millie to pick out her fish. Let me give you a little backstory:
My child is obsessed with sharks—and it’s not the healthy kind of obsession that I have with Britney Spears or Lindt milk chocolate. She carries around a shark encyclopedia on the daily; she can rattle off over 50 species in the span of a minute. It’s like Bubba in the movie Forrest Gump. “There’s lemon sharks. There’s tiger sharks. There’s sands sharks; wobbegong sharks, thresher sharks…”
I was painting my nails a few months ago when she stood in front of me and announced, "Commercial fishing kills over 50 million sharks a year as a result of 'bycatch'. There's a charity I can donate my birthday money to who helps find these illegal fishing vessels and then reports them."
"No one likes a tattle-tale, Millie," I told her.
We decided she could use her savings to buy her very own fish tank and transform her bedroom into a mini aquarium.
So back to present day. The ski trip was a wild success. I broke zero bones and gained five pounds. Millie was overjoyed with her fish tank, and now she only had to wait a few more days for the water to finish conditioning.
Since Matt and I had a birthday party to attend in Chicago, my mom offered to stay overnight at our house and take Millie to purchase her fish. The day had finally arrived for us to welcome into the family: Jaws 1, Jaws 2, Jaws 3, Jaws Revenge, and Robert "Bob" the Snail (not to be confused with the Double-Quarter-Pounder-eating-phenomenon Robert my neighbor).
Welp, I got an early morning phone call in my hotel room that added to my burgeoning headache. Two of the fish were dead, and the others had gone missing. "Like someone stole them?" I asked, half-asleep. "Well, we recovered two bodies but the others are gone. We've searched the entire tank. We're wondering if Bob ate them." (Hmm...maybe he IS to be confused with the Double-Quarter-Pounder-eating-phenomenon Robert my neighbor).
So back to the fish store they headed with a Ziploc of Jaws 1 and Jaws Revenge along with a water sample to test the PH levels. Millie and my mom return home with three larger fish and all is well again---for two hours. At this point we're home from Chicago, and we're sitting in front of the tank when all of a sudden the fish begin to float upside down. Millie's eyes fill with tears and I whisper to my husband, "This ain't good."
Bob is the sole survivor, or so we think. It turns out that snails can stay dormant for weeks at a time, so he's not really giving us any indication. He's also a bit shy, so we're really just waiting for him to come out of his shell.
Now back to a different pet store and finally some answers. We have what is called "New Tank Syndrome." Something about ammonia and a lack of bacteria and the tank needing cycled for approximately 6-8 weeks. Apparently one needs a Master's Degree in chemistry to keep a few guppies alive, which is confusing to me as I'm pretty sure I once won a bagged goldfish at the Decatur Celebration and he thrived in a dirty bowl for three years.
Well, now Millie is traumatized. She can't get the image of those dead floating guppies out of her mind, and she's scared to sleep in her bedroom. Exhausted from my night out in Chicago, I give in and let her sleep downstairs. Our master bedroom is on the main level, and both girls' bedrooms are upstairs, so naturally Greta is scared to sleep upstairs without Millie. I make things easy and say I'll sleep in Millie's room. Wonderful. Can I please go to bed now?
So here I am, tossing and turning, listening to the "BUBBBBLE bubble GURRRGLE gurrgle WOOOOsshhh" sound of the damn fish tank pump that is probably more suited for the Shedd Aquarium, the entire room is glowing and, I, too, am starting to get a bit frightened. Where DID those missing guppies go?
I try and ignore the tank and look to the ceiling above me.
Then I look beside me.
I wake up feeling a bit seasick, but hey, nothing Fat Tuesday can't fix. Millie orders a large Oreo McFlurry, and when I tell her she can settle for a small, she reminds me that she's mourning eight dead pets, so a large it is. I quickly decide against the fish filet sandwich, and oh, screw it: I'll take the Double Quarter Pounder with cheese.
