My mom has Alzheimer’s. Her characteristically unsolicited and honest tongue (“I made you an electrolysis appointment” when I didn’t ask for one) – is now complimentary and docile (“I love your shirt!” about this one that I regretted wearing?). Surprisingly, I miss her lack of filter; it kept me on my toes. I play mom, her favorite, Neil Sedaka. In Oh! Carol, Sedaka talks about Carol, who treats him cruel and makes him feel like a fool. “Mom,” I say, “I think Neil needs therapy” – to which she responds, “that Carol is a tramp.” For a brief second, she’s back.
“Do you have anything you would like to say to Oscar?” my husband asks.
“He knows how I feel. To be respectful for the near dead, I am going to be quiet.”
This aquatic pet came into our family about three years ago. My husband bought him, and the two formed a brotherly bond in the pet store. Just two manly guys living in Brooklyn, Oscar thought on the ride home. Boy, was he surprised when he saw me sitting on the living room couch! When my spouse dropped him in his new home, his eyes bulged and he cocked his head at my significant other, who’s the bitch in the living room?
He made his intentions clear on our first night together. My son and husband go to bed before me. So, I get to hang in the living room, alone. Aaaah. Tap, tap, tap. What’s that noise? Is there someone at the front door? Nope. Oscar who is about the size of a bag of coffee is sucking up the pebbles on the bottom of the tank, rolling them in his mouth, and spitting them out against the glass. What kind of monster fish did my honey bring home? Is Oscar trying to break the glass so he can escape and murder me?
My enemy finds another way to menace me. I pee quite a lot during the night which means I have to pass the fish tank to get to the bathroom. Just as I am nearing Oscar’s home, I hear splash, and feel drops of water on my body. Oscar is diving to the bottom of the tank and propelling himself up with such force that water comes out of the tank making a puddle on the floor and sprinkling me in aquarium water. Is he trying to drown me in his own twisted fish way? Is he attempting to scare me to death? Going to the bathroom has become so frightening that many nights I “hold it in” until morning.
I ask both my boys, “Does Oscar splash you?” They say no.
The evidence is clear: Oscar is a misogynfish.
As my foe resides in the living room, he knows I am the first person to get up. In the morning, I am horrified to find the catfish, Oscar’s tank mate, splattered on the floor. Did Oscar push his tank mate out? Was he sending me a message? Did he watch the Godfather last night?
I decide to fight back. It’s on.
I keep washcloths near his tank. Protecting my legacy, I tell my husband that if anything should happen to me, suspect the fish. When I walk by the tank, I yell “I hate you.” We reach an understanding.
Then, a few weeks ago, Oscar does not look good. My husband, tries everything: changing the water, cleaning the filter, and googling Oscar ailments. Nothing works. The big water guy is not swimming anymore, just laying on the bottom of the tank, bobbing on the gravel.
Every morning, I hope I am going to see a dead fish. Upside down looking like death finally caught him, he turns over and swims like Mark Spitz when he sees me. He is hanging on just to irritate me. Hate and spite are very strong emotions and they are keeping him alive.
We have a fish tank to provide a sense of calm to the apartment; but, having an almost dead fish with labored breathing bouncing around the bottom of the tank is bringing the apartment down. No one sits in the living room. I propose euthanasia but my kid– who rules the house– wants Oscar to die naturally. With my open loathing of the fish, my motives are suspicious. I give my version of last rites, yelling at the tank, “Jesus, would you die already?”
Our second catfish nips at Oscar (karma is a bitch) which is not a good sign. When my kid sees this, he agrees, it is time.
We say our goodbyes and Oscar’s human buddy does the deed.
We replace Oscar with two small fish who are indifferent to me. The nights are lonely, and I miss the big guy.
I was not drinking at the time I promised my nine year old a pet scorpion.
My fourth grader, after much thought, decided to write about scorpions for his independent study. From the second he made that selection, we were all about scorpions: researching and ordering books from the library, talking about these arachnids, and discussing how to structure his report. In our search, I found a book titled “How to Take Care of Your Pet Scorpion.” As I have perennial guilt for not giving him a sibling, I started thinking maybe we can get him a pet scorpion! We would be the cool family on the block. “Come over and see Frank our pet emperor scorpion.” Without doing any further investigation or consultation with my husband (whoops!), I asked my child if he would like a pet scorpion.
In a millisecond after I enunciated the “en” in scorpion, his eyes enlarged to owl size and his mouth opened to snake aperture before it eats its prey.
“Can we go now to get one?”
It was eight in the morning on a Sunday. So, I had three grueling hours of “what time is it?” until the local pet store opened. More important, I now had the time to do some research.
This is what I found. According to the Health Code of New York City, it is illegal to own “all bears (including polar, grizzly, brown and black [not teddy]…venomous spiders… and scorpions” Uh oh. I am in big trouble. I rushed back to the source, flipped to the very very very back of the book and found in a small grey box “scorpions are dangerous, check state regulations to assure that you can own one.” Now you tell me. Clearly, this should have been in the prologue or in the title, something like, “How to Take Care of Your Pet Scorpion: If Your State Allows It.” I guess the book would not sell with such a title.
Lucky for me, my kid took it pretty well when I pinched his dreams of being a scorpion owner. I think he knew that New York City would never allow one of its residents to have a pet that could sting causing pain and/or death. (I guess the first rule in getting a pet is: don’t get one that can kill you). I, however, now had double the guilt, and I was desperate to atone for my sin and make my offspring happy. A mantra was playing in my head “I must get my child a pet” and it was on repeat, getting louder by the minute.
On the way to the pet store, we discussed the types of pets to be considered to join our family, and my kid’s first idea was snake. I really hate snakes. My ophiophobia can be traced to my fourth grade year when one of my male classmates brought in his pet snake for show and tell. But, it was not just the snake in the tank; it was temporarily sharing his home with an unsuspecting cute white mouse, aka dinner. As part of the learning experience, we watched the snake and mouse hang in the tank together for a while until the snake got hungry. How terrifying to not only watch the mouse being swallowed whole but also to bear witness to it being digested. When I found out I was having a boy, my first fear, among many, was that he would want a snake. I was now starring in my own horror movie.
I resigned myself to the fact that I just may have to get him a snake to make-up for my broken promise. I now had a new song sounding in my head, on calm whisper, snakes are okay, snakes are okay, snakes are okay. I prayed for a vegetarian one.
We made a beeline to the reptile and “non dog and cat” section (my kid has allergies). Along with the snakes, there was a tank with one gecko. I did not know much about this creature but at first glance I was in love.
“What do you think?” My little guy was slightly intrigued, inspecting the gecko in the tank. Meanwhile, my husband, who was surprisingly and eerily quiet, was checking out the gerbil and hamster selection. I did my frantic mommy wave to come over, mouthing I think I found something good.
Like spidergeckoman, our future family pet was walking all over the sides of the tank taking pauses to look at us, confirming the feeling was mutual. He had great qualities for a pet: loving, playful, and on sale!
“What does he eat?” I asked the salesperson.
“Live crickets. And, worms, mostly”
“Worms are like candy to them.”
I never thought I would say worms are the least of my problems. Getting back to the crickets, we found out that geckos eat these buggers about three times a week. As you have to buy them live, you need to get about ten on a weekly basis.
“When are you going to get them?” asked my husband trying very hard to suppress his doubts and laughter.
“I’m off on Fridays.” I really wanted this to work.
“You can also store many in a cricket pen,” the salesperson chimed in. So, for the eight inch gecko, I would need a gecko habitat, tank for its live food, and shelf for the worms.
“Is there such a thing as dried crickets?”
“We do carry dried crickets” yay! “but” crap “geckos like to hunt for their food, and they get kind of sad if they don’t.”
Nobody wants a depressed gecko. Then, what would be the next step? Prozac? How do you feed a pill to a reptile? I took a deep breath, meditated for a second, convincing my conscience that I could deal with crickets and worms residing in my apartment that I worked very hard to decorate. There was, however, another issue looming in the gecko feeding process.
“How do you get the crickets in the tank without the gecko jumping out?”
“Easy, some of my customers spray water on the gecko while dropping the crickets in the tank.”
I have caused numerous long lines and hmmphs and eye rolls at several grocery stores with my inability to put away my dollar bills and change at the same time. During feeding time, I envisioned spritzes of water all over the tank and me, crickets hopping, and a gecko geckoing all over my apartment and parts of Brooklyn. Worse yet, signs on our building door, asking has anyone seen Gordon our gecko (with a cute picture) and apologizing for the cricket infestation. We certainly would not be the cool family; we would be that family.
I turned to my kid. “How do you feel about the gecko?”
“I have a problem feeding my pet something live.”
When we got home gecko-less, my husband ordered our little non pet owner several scorpion keychains and doodads and a scorpion necklace for me. And, through a not for profit, I adopted a scorpion in my kid’s name.
Done. Now time for that drink.
Last year, we were lucky; our little guy was just a half inch short of the height requirement necessary to go down the cannonball slide. Kids grow. So, this year, he just made it, and he was excited to put his new height into good use.
Neither my husband nor I have the amusement park/fearless gene (I was born with the easily nauseated, scaredy-cat DNA) so we did not scream yippee! when the top of his head peaked over the red line. I drew the short straw so I was forcibly elected to be the one to take the cannonball-heighted kid down the ride. While my son was excited to take this plunge, deep down — really afraid. So, I had to look strong and enthusiastic about the journey.
Step, step, step, platform, turn, step, step, step, platform, turn, when is this climb going to end? I should have realized it was going to take a long while to get to the top of a 60 foot drop. Trekking up this monstrous slide, gave the rider (me) a ridiculous amount of time to contemplate this decision. By the time I got to the top, I could have been legally committed. I fantasized a pharmacy or drug dealer nearby.
But, I had to snap out of this haze as I had an eager companion, my eight year old kid who just schlepped this heavy toboggan looking sled up an infinite number of steps. (He looked really cute, too). Because of the cloudy weather, when we reached the top, nary a soul was there; with one exception, the waterslide attendant who was reclining on the fold-up chair with his feet lying yet on another chair. He wore aviator sunglasses, had a skin color that could have been named Benjamin Moore summer suntan, and thick black shiny hair. Clearly, he worked out. I assumed he had cool name, like Jake or Luke; and Katie, was one of his many girlfriends.
“Hey, bro, which slide do you want?”
I was trying very hard to control my nerves but I was having trouble breathing from the arduous hike, the Colorado like air quality, and my imminent heart attack. Bro boy was not helping.
“Which slide is the fastest?”
“Bro, both slides are the same.”
With all his might, my offspring lifts his very heavy sled in the groove of the slide. He is ready to go.
“Need some help there, bro?”
Meanwhile, I am frozen, cannot put my sled into the other slide. I take a look at the drop; the path my sled will go. This does not help; I feel my breakfast coming up. The slide will fall straight down, not even a hint of an angle. I’m done. Perhaps, it is time for my child to learn the lesson that you don’t do things that you are not comfortable with. I convince myself that he will find this useful in his teens when he is pressured to try drugs.
“I don’t think I can go down.”
“Well, mom, if you don’t go, I won’t go.” Oy. Bad mommy. I just ruined his joy of reaching cannonball slide height.
Bro-boy came over to me. I whisper to him, “has anyone ever died on this thing?” In a low voice back to me, without the bro and surfer tone, “ I promise, it is very safe. You’ll have a great time.”
With new bro-confidence, I put my sled in the slide and get aboard. My guy gets in his.
“Need a push, bro?”
“You’re not going to push me until I say it’s okay?”
“Hey, bro, it’s my job to make sure you have a good time.”
If I survive this ride, I am going to give this guy a recommendation. And, off we go. I must admit, it was a tremendous amount of fun. And, me and my guy went again. And again.
I couldn’t understand why my husband got that upset. Diagnosis: benign. Worst case scenario, I grow my hair long.
I reported to my other half that the doctor confirmed that the newly discovered lump on the side of my face was a lipoma, a fatty deposit aka no cancer. He, however, heard lymphoma, a tumor in the lymph nodes which meant the Big C, very bad news. Say lipoma ten times fast on a cell phone with so-so reception and it does sounds a lot like lymphoma.
Which made me wonder, who decided on this name? And, didn’t anyone say, hey Bob, you know lipoma differs from lymphoma only by four letters, shouldn’t we rename it? We are going to cause heart attacks and unnecessary tears.
Discovering new diseases, frequently named with malpractice is commonplace for me. As a parent, I am forced to learn the symptoms, treatment, and prognosis of ailments, rashes, and diseases.
And, any mom or dad will tell you that you find out about the latest epidemic from opening up the red folder in your kid’s school knapsack. There is usually a long letter from the principal describing the latest infection that is going around the school. What disease could my little angel get today? Equally heart-racing is opening up an email from camp or school with the subject line NAME OF DISEASE REPORTED or my personal favorite, ANOTHER CASE OF NAME OF DISEASE CONFIRMED.
Here are the top three:
Does your child look like someone slapped him/her? No need to call the principal to find out what is going on in the classroom. More likely than not your child has contracted fifth disease. When I got this letter, I thought I missed the first four letters discussing first, second, third and fourth disease. The practical joker who named this disease chose it because it is the fifth of six rash-forming sicknesses. Rashes numbering 1 through 4 and 6 use their aliases like rubella, measles, and roseola. It is like naming your six children, Abby, Betty, Carlos, David, Five, and Freddy.
This blister and temperature rising virus is also called hand foot and mouth disease because that’s where your kid will have these pustules. Don’t fret; it is not foot and mouth disease which farm animals get. Phew. You can go back to the zoo. As this virus was first confirmed in the lovely village of Coxsackie, New York, the town became its namesake. When the mayor got the news that they were chosen to be the name of the virus, did he/she complain or was there a parade?
Are you itchy? Just getting this notice will make you scratch your head, a lot. I had lice in college, and at that time, you could get kwell, a shampoo that killed lice on contact. It is no longer on the market, I think, because it causes cancer (or maybe lipomas?). I miss kwell. I would buy it on the black market if I could. Now, if you contract the non-jumping crawling buggers, you get them out using a not so potent non cancer causing shampoo and Pantene conditioner (to comb out the dead critters) in several uses. Buy a lot of candy; you’ll need it to get your kid do yet another comb out. A good sign of a lice epidemic is checking the local pharmacy. An empty shelf where the Pantene is supposed to be or a sign “Pantene on order” equals lice infestation.
I think it is safe to say that you won’t just get one letter or email alerting a case of lice; there will be several. Your kid will not have a case of louse; it will always be the plural, lice.
I didn’t need to consult the Merck Manual or WebMD for this contagion. At the very least, this one is aptly named.