FYI: Petco is Not for Fishing

I figure every once in a while I will post these little FYI posts, because let's face it, I think I know a lot and feel it my obligation to share said knowledge with the seven people who read my blog.

Twelve days ago we had to send back a fish to it's rightful owner. We had been fostering him since before Thanksgiving, and being the total emo I am, and Jero being the sweet man who wants to see me not crying over a Betta, we decided to go and get ourselves a fishy or two.

We walked into Petco and headed straight for the fancy goldfish. We thought we'd get two, and maybe a snail. There was one there, the only Telescope Goldfish in the bunch. She had HUGE green eyes and the rest of her was orange. She looked like a fish directly out of a Dr. Seuss book. Then there was another little fat orange one with tufts near her eyes that looked like long eyelashes. Needless to say, picking two was going to be difficult. Especially since Jero has weird eye issues and was bound and determined that if we got the one with the big eyes he'd come out one morning to it grotesquely damaged. We decided to pick a bowl first.

Are you kidding me Petco? Twenty dollars for a two gallon goldfish bowl??

Now, I understand that when picking a pet you shouldn't be thinking about money. If you don't have the means to care for an animal, you shouldn't have an animal. That being said, most pet owners worry about possible vet bills and the like. We didn't go out and buy a thousand dollar Irish Wolfhound (my dream dog) because we could not afford an Irish Wolfhound. We went through rescue programs and found two very wonderful additions to our family because that was in our means to do so. Thinking about the cost does not make you a bad pet owner, it makes you financially responsible. It was never a question of if we could feed or shelter our dogs, and though vet bills do make me sweat a lot, we have always found a way to do what our dogs needed.

Fish are different. Fish are not long term pets. Some are. Some can just keep swimming for years. Goldfish do not fall in this category.

I was an avid fish caretaker in my youth. From everything to a few goldfish in a bowl to an elaborate saltwater tank with a live coral reef. The longest I ever had a goldfish was three years. Which is an eternity in goldfish years.

Goldfish die. Why on earth would I spend twenty bucks on a fishbowl? But, at this point we'd seen the fish and were definitely getting one. We decided to ask the fish person what she recommended as far as size. She looked at us like we were the scum of the earth and said, "you can't put two fish in a bowl!"

We did learn something. We learned that for every half inch of fish you need a gallon of water. Wow. That's a lot of space for two fancy goldfish and a snail.

I still think we were suckered. Now, she was probably right about the bowl. But, we ended up buying a ten gallon tank, with filter, light source, sample food and chemicals. Rocks, Mt. Wannahockaloogie and other decorations. Fish food, net, more chemicals, and an air pump.

Folks, the goldfish that lived three years? I won him at a demolition derby at our local fair. I carried him in that sack all day long. Got him home and stuck him in a glass bowl...maybe it held a gallon of water. He eventually did go into a larger tank when I decided I wanted fish that would need a light source and heater, but that was LONG after I got him. I learned to put Start Right in the water when I had two out of the five other goldfish I bought die of bloat. Kiss This (that was his name) lived through it all. I will admit he was a hearty fish.

Come on! We totally got suckered. But, the idea of getting back into this hobby after a decade and a half away from it was kind of clouding my judgment.

She told us that our tank should be set up and running for 24-36 hours before we introduce fish to it. So, we spent too much money and didn't even come home with a fish.

Twenty four hours later, I was back at Petco. The same girl helped me. She informed me that snails required a heat source, but a Plecostomus did not. So, I picked out Tara (big eyes), Willow (Oranda goldfish), and Angel (Plecostomus that lurks). The lady was very nice, she helped me pick out the right air pump and sent me on my way.

Three days later, on Saturday, Kelly got to pick out a fish for remembering three things he learned that week in school. He picked a larger Oranda which he named Daisy Buffy Squarepants. Jero picked a beautiful Shubunkin goldfish we named Spike.

Now, I am going to stop here, because I am about to rip on Petco big time. I know the wonderful things Petco does. I know they help shelter pets until adoption. I understand that when fish are shipped to them they arrive extremely stressed. There is bound to be a high mortality rate in new tanks. Fish who are not hearty cannot handle the stress of new tank after new tank. I get all that.

But I have some justified anger surrounding the way they sold these fish.

The fish food that they sold me told me to feed my fish several times a day in amounts that could be consumed in a few minutes. I did this to the glee of my seemingly always hungry fish. Tara was undeniably my favorite. Her great big eyes and the way she swam made her seem always so happy. She was the first to get sick.

She started having issues with floating. She'd float to the top and would rest there, unable to swim to the center or bottom of the tank. She looked miserable, fins all droopy, big eyes somehow sad.

I went to Petco to get more chemicals so I could change out half the water. I knew she had bloat, and Jero had found that this is a common problem with Telescope goldfish. The site he found online said that you should only feed your goldfish once a day, because they have no stomachs overfeeding can cause constipation. It said to feed her lightly boiled, peeled peas. He did. The young man at Petco was very honest, he said that their fancy tanks had Ick. He told me what treatment chemicals he would use.

I got home, put Tara in her own bowl because the other fish were picking on her, and changed out the water. When I went to put Tara back in, she was dead. I took her to Petco with a sample of my water and was then told that her eyes were far too big, even for Telescopes and that she was probably deformed. They gave me a refund. The nice young man told me what to watch for in my tank to see if I had Ick.

That was last Sunday. I'd had the tank for four days.

Then, on Wednesday, Jero called me at work to tell me that Spike had died. He was having an issue with one of his fins. Buffy, the bully, was really aggressive during feeding times. We had talked to a girl from Petco who told us there wasn't a whole lot of damage goldfish can do to each other, and that he probably wasn't as hurt as he seemed. Spike seemed to perk up the next day, but then when Jero came out of the shower he was dead.

I was furious. I had never lost two fish so closely together. When Jero took him and a water sample back to Petco, they had finally put ONE sign up on ONE tank saying they were under observation. Code for Ick. Jero got to see exactly what Ick looks like. The thing about one sign is that their tanks share a water source.

Our water had a slightly elevated ammonia level, but not high enough to kill Spike. We treated our water to remove the ammonia.

Then, yesterday morning, after picking up Kelly, Jero told me we had Ick.

Basically, due to still not holding down food, I had to pump Jero up to be strong when he went to Petco. We needed the medication to treat the Ick, and I wanted to give that place a piece of my mind through my gentle fiance.

I get the good they do. I get they are a large chain and the bottom line is what matters, but they have a responsibility to sell healthy pets, or to inform a customer of any illness.

We should have been informed that their tanks had Ick. When fish come in, naturally stressed, they should not be immediately put in tanks with healthy fish for sale. They should be quarantined for ten days until they know there is no illness. Tara, so obviously misshapen, should have been sold with a warning that she probably wouldn't last long. A customer should not be told once her fish start dying that they had Ick when she bought them.

Because of these things, we did get the medicine for free, but this is little consolation. Jero and I are animal people. We know fish are not long term pets, but we have had two fish die and two very ill out of the FIVE fish we purchased in less than two weeks.

The moral of this story? Petco is good for many things, but I would not purchase your fish there. If you do, I hope this educates you as to the questions you should ask when you buy your pets (this experience makes me nervous about the rodents they sell as well) there.

When did they come in? Are there illnesses in your tanks? Are the directions on this package correct?

I hope you have better luck than us and your fish just keep swimming on and on.

Lakeside Stories: The Day of the Bats

I've been pretty much curled up in a tiny-ish ball for the last two days. I can't stare at the television any longer and I need to take a little break from Stephen King. I decided to write...but what about? I thought about writing of being sick as a child, but the only one that came to mind as worthy of sharing took place in my ballerina year and I don't think you want flu ridden, tutu wearing images of me dancing in your heads. I decided instead to write the first in a series I'd like to call Lakeside Stories.



I grew up...well, really I only a third grew up, between two homes on North and South Twin Lakes near Inchelium, Washington. I was a very lucky kid. Growing up as I did, with so much outdoorsy goodness right outside my front door, I feel as if I had a particularly adventurous childhood compared to kids today.

Ahem, we're going to pretend that didn't make me sound old.

It wasn't always rainbows and puppies. No, I am not about to talk of walking barefoot, uphill both ways. I took a bus, though the walk from the stop to our house wasn't short, it was flat, and I always had shoes even if I chose not to wear them.

If any of you know me, you know I am just about scared of anything that crawls, has big claws, or tries to dive bomb you from the sky. The cabin we lived in had an abundance of all of these things. As a matter of fact, I blame most of my fears on those years by the lake.

One day that stands out in particular I like to think of as the day of the bats.

Our cabin had a huge bat problem. They lived in the little arches of our metal roof, and you could hear them in the low hanging ceiling of our bedrooms. The squeaking was enough to drive you crazy. You couldn't help but wonder if that one right by your head had figured out a way inside.

My mom repeatedly had an exterminator to our house, but the suckers just weren't dying. When confronted by my mother, the exterminator actually replied, "it's not a tumor, I'll be back"...no just kidding, but he did say, "you want me to kill them?" He argued that bats eat bugs, and are therefor good things. My mother informed him that they were not eating OUR bugs, as will be revealed to you in a later story, he was then told that as an exterminator he was expected to exterminate.

He applied this goo into our roof. The goo would get on a bat who would carry it back and the others would clean him and the goo would spread. But, the goo was not lethal, it got in their wings and kept them from flying. Our job was to bop them on the head and scoop them up into garbage bags.

I was the designated bag holder.

This worked for a while, until they moved from the roof of our house to behind the backboard of our basketball hoop, into the eaves of our garage.

At least we didn't have to fall asleep counting bats anymore.

One bright, sunny day, my mom and dad told my brother to go outside and put a hose behind the backboard to flush out the bats.

Now, this particular big brother looks the least Native out of all of us, reddish hair, freckled up the wazzoo (just an expression, we aren't those kind of rednecks) but he did things according to Indian Time better than Sitting Bull himself. Everything in good time seemed to be his motto.

So, my mom and dad decided they could wait a while before going out to help him, because it wasn't as if time was of an essence. Then they heard screaming.

My brother had decided the best way to go about this was to climb the ladder and stick the hose in with the water already running. As soon as he did so, bats came flooding out of the rafters.

Now, I don't really know if I was there. This story has been told and retold so many times in my life, it becomes hazy as to where exactly I was while all of this was happening. But I remember it as if I was standing in the center and everything was happening in a slow motion, floaty sort of way.

My brother was screaming and waving his arms, "BAAAAATTTTTTSSSS!!!"

My mother was waving a broom, her weapon of choice, as you will also learn in another story.

My sister was yelling and waving a baseball bat, which we were ducking along with the winged kind.

My dad was calmly standing there, his arms raised to try and ease our stress saying, "everyone needs to just calm down, they're just bats. Just calm down."

My mother points to his chest, "Bob..."

Stuck to my dad's chest was a big, black bat. Had it been back lit in yellow, he would have looked JUST like Batman, except for the sheer look of fright in his unmasked eyes.

Here I remember my dad screaming in a much higher pitch than I am sure is accurate while saying, "get it off! GET IT OFF OF ME! GET IT OFF, PLEASE!!!"

My mother brushed the bat away and by this point, the bats had fled to the trees. When we all looked around we realized that the entire resort, which our cabin neighbored, was standing along the fence line watching the spectacle. Perfect.

This may be why, while camping or whatnot, whenever I hear that familiar squeaking coming from the trees, I may say, "they're just bats" but the calmness doesn't quite reach my eyes.

Because it's only a matter of time before someone gets a purple nurple from Dracula.

A Love Story

Most of you may already know this story, or at least the pertinent parts, but just sit back and listen patiently again. Treat me like you would your memory challenged family member that everyone puts up with so as not to hurt their feelings.



I met Jero when I was fifteen and he was a mature man of sixteen. I had never met anyone who could make me laugh so hard. He was strange, I was strange and totally twitterpated. There was just one problem...he was twitterpated for someone else.

I was relentless. I kept telling myself that by the time he realized how perfect we were for each other, we would already have this amazing friendship and it would be a very smooth process.

I followed him around wherever he went. I injected myself into his group of friends, which turned out to be one of the best acts of serendipity in my life. I found a group of people who were all very strange! I fit in!

I have never been a very patient person. After months, honestly, it may have been less than that. Time is funny when you've loved a person for so long. I can sit here and say, wow, I am thirty...ahem...one, that is sixteen years. That is a long time. But our first kiss, the first time we held hands, the first time he told me he loved me, all of these things can feel just like yesterday.

Anyway, I couldn't take any more of listening to him talk about this other girl. Not because I didn't like her, on the contrary I loved her myself. It may have helped that she loved someone else, so I did not see her as a threat. He'd drive her home, which was about four hundred miles out of town, and I'd tag along. I began to neglect paying attention in Geometry and Spanish because I was so focused on making him laugh. Trying so hard to be cool and not some awkward, geeky freshman.

In other words, Jero had himself a tiny little stalker.

We began camping in my backyard. A large group of us would pretzel ourselves into a four man tent pitched on the flattest part of my yard. I made sure that I always slept by Jero. Hoping and praying that maybe our hands would touch while we slept. This would have worked better if I didn't have the uncanny clumsiness to knee or elbow him in the nuts every time I had to pee.

You see, we slept cross ways across the front of the tent, so as to fit two more bodies into the Tetris-like puzzle that was our temporary home. Jero always slept right by the door because I had (and may still do) an unfounded snake fear. I may have thought (and may still do) that he hung the moon and the stars but that did not mean I was going to take a snake bite for him. So he slept nearest the door. As you may know, a tent that size does not enable you to stand up and gracefully exit. No, I had to crawl my way over Jero and out, all the while worrying about what could be in my shoes waiting for me outside the door. EVERY SINGLE TIME I would knee, elbow, fist or kick Jero in the family jewels.

He should really be seen by a doctor to make sure the repeated assaults didn't permanently sterilize him.

One night, we were in his room watching movies. We were both on the bed and I fell asleep snuggled in the nook of his arm. His mom walked in, saw us, and said, "oh, I don't think so," and exited the room.

It was not long after that, on one of these camp outs, that our hands met and we kissed. I honestly can't remember if we were in my backyard or at Bradbury Beach. I think it was Bradbury. I just remember the musty smell of the tent. That we didn't want anyone to hear us kissing, but eventually someone said, "are you guys kissing?!"

I have loved this man since I was a girl. I made a lot of mistakes along the way. Performing acts of self sabotage because I was scared, young, not ready to feel so strongly for another person. We both went our separate ways, on a few occasions. I had Kelly, got married. He went to college, dated my friends (you totally knew that was coming). But we still found each other again.

We came back together as adults, but I still remember sitting on the love seat he kept on his balcony for us smokers, watching the people in the park, laughing. I remember our hands barely touching and all of a sudden I was fifteen again, not wanting to move a muscle for fear of breaking the spell. It's amazing that I lasted so long without the feeling of home that envelops me when we are together.

We are still strange, and really quite Ricky and Lucy together. He once broke my nose in his sleep. I have repeatedly lit our kitchen on fire trying out a new recipe. He burped in the dog's face, which was very near my face, and made me vomit. He puts Cheez-Its in the bathroom. We have a monkey song...and dance. And every second of those moments, and every moment in between, I think how lucky I am to have found the perfect partner for me. I am grateful those stupid self sabotaging mistakes are in the past and now all that matters is our future.



Aww. I know this has been sappy, and longer than I meant it to be. I wanted to get into some of our more exciting exploits and a story or two about The Lincoln and The Raisin, but alas, those are stories for another post.

Life Lessons From Johnny Castle

I have been thinking a lot today about loss. Now, keep reading, though this story is about a specific loss of mine, the idea is not. The idea is about universal loss. We've all lost something in our lives right? A loved one, a friendship, an important opportunity, ourselves.

Loss is a great equalizer. It crosses the lines of class. It does not discriminate. At some point in time, we all will face it. As a matter of fact, most of us will face it multiple times in our lives. It's never easy.



When I was in the third grade I had this boyfriend. Now, by boyfriend, I mean we told people we were "going out" without ever actually going anywhere. We never held hands, most definitely never kissed, I don't even think we called each other on the phone. Still, I thought he hung the moon.

One day a new girl arrived in our class. She was cute, as most third grade girls are...okay, that came off a little creepy. I mean, we were all cute. Even chubby me, I was fucking adorable. Kids are supposed to be cute and adorable, otherwise they're doomed to play the evil child in some Stephen King movie.

Anyway, new girl. Everyone is always fascinated by the new girl. I was. She lived a few houses down and we would walk to and from school together. We talked about how dreamy Patrick Swayze was in Dirty Dancing. How someday we'd go away to a resort and meet a handsome boy who would sweep us off our feet and tell our parents, "no one puts Sara in a corner!" Yes, for clarification her name was also Sara...though at this point in time I cannot remember if she spelled her name with an "h" or not. We were bosom buddies.

Well, it wasn't very long before my boyfriend started to notice this new Sara too. He'd always tag her if he was it. His side would always Red Rover her on over. I was devastated. Was I really going to have to choose between my new friend and my boyfriend?

Well, as any little girl would do, I chose the boyfriend. I paid more attention to him, played with him at recess. I think that may have even been the beginning of a life long addiction to flirting. And it worked. Sort of.

He came to school one day and told Sara and I that he had come up with a way to help him choose. He told us that whoever dressed the cutest the next day would be his girlfriend. We both laughed, until we realized he was serious.

The walk home that afternoon was silent.

It. Was. On.

I spent the better part of an hour trying on all of my clothes in every possible combination. Putting my hair in a ponytail, then taking it down again. Wondering if my neon scrunchies clashed with my polka dot tights. I was one panicked fashion victim.

Then I remembered Patrick Swayze.

The next day I wore sweats and one of my dad's t-shirts to school. I barely brushed my hair, and I don't think I wore deodorant. While Sara arrived fresh as a tulip in a pink skirt and ribbons in her hair. I strode confidently over to that player in Transformers sneakers and I said, "I decided anyone who would choose a girlfriend because of her clothes is stupid."

I know, it could have been so much better. It lacks punch and pizazz. But give me a break, I was nine. And telling him, "nobody puts Sara in a corner" would have just confused him. Besides, I said it well, at least I should have, I practiced those words for hours.


The point is, I didn't want to lose. I didn't want to lose my first boyfriend. I didn't want to lose a new friend. I didn't want to lose the competition. Most of all, I didn't want to lose myself.

I stuck to who I was. I took the moral high ground, aside from calling him stupid that is. There was no angry note passing or gossiping at recess. Actually, even though I called him stupid, he and I stayed friends. Sara and I too, until she moved again a year later.

Loss is funny. Some of it sticks with you forever. The loss of a loved one, for instance. Some are healed by time to a point where they don't feel like your heart is hollow . But all reveal a piece of who you are, what you're made of.

It's what you do in the face of loss. How you deal with that grief, that anger, that hurt and sadness that could either help you grow or hold you back.

Nothing puts Sara in a corner, not even loss.

Sad? Get a Pedicure!

So, I have this really negative situation going on in my life. Every day I come home from work, check my Facebook thinking today will be the end of all the ugliness, then burst into tears. After the tears comes a large amount of anger that makes me wonder if I am, in fact, ready for it to be over.

I am angry for many justifiable reasons, but one of them is what is on my mind today. I am angry at myself. Not because I think an apology is due from me, because at this point in time that is not going to happen. I am angry with myself because this person purposefully hurt me, and I am letting them get what they wanted by shedding so many tears over it. I am being a doormat by letting this situation overshadow all the good.

As an old friend said, my feelings are still valid, and I do not want to take away from the fact that I am unbelievably hurt, but I need to stop letting those feelings take away from all of the others. So, I am writing this to get those feelings out there, so I can stop constantly thinking about them and move forward.

Because that's what 2010 has been for me. An uphill battle to stop standing still. To stop being afraid of being happy. To stop sabotaging the good things in my life because I believe that by being happy I am somehow betraying my son.

It's something I have been working on for eight years, and I believe it will be a life long struggle. But I do not hold a monopoly on grief and I do not have to carry all of it all of the time.

I try to remember that there are a very few fortunate souls on this Earth who do not feel some sort of loss. This time of year has us all thinking about the holes left by those losses.

I've done pretty well this year, had a few destructive moments I am greatly ashamed of, but if I look where I started and where I am now I am so grateful.

I am grateful for my own strength and for the strength and love of those I hold most dear. I feel as if, through this hurtful situation, I have turned over a new leaf. By venting to Jero and my journal, I have realized I do not have to apologize for who I have become.

I have gone through a sort of reverse metamorphosis. No longer the social butterfly I was. No longer wanting to flit here and there. Now, I see the value of home, of hearth, of family. Making a warm, cozy home for Jero has been so rewarding. I do not see making home-cooked meals as a chore or an obligation, I see it as a gift. I treasure the time I get, wrapped in a blanket, enjoying the home I have worked so hard to build.

I get scared. I've been here before. I've been in the place where it feels everything is coming together as I have always dreamed it, just to have it shattered and scattered. Sometimes that fear makes me lash out at my life, trying to shatter it myself so I won't get fooled again.

In the last few weeks, I really took a look at what I have, and though I feel that dread churning inside of me, it no longer makes me want to tear it all apart. Instead I want to envelop it, nurture it so it can continue to grow.

Does any of this make any sense?

I know this is a switch from the humor I've been writing, but because I felt so ashamed of the pain I am feeling I have been trying to hide it away. Then I started thinking about the title of my blog.

It's all a tangled skein. The good and the bad. The hurt and the healing, the laughter and the tears. Why hide it? Why be ashamed of my pain and anger? On the flip side, why hide my happiness? Why feel guilty of my joy?

I'm sorry for the hurt out there. I am sorry I and many of those I love have experienced far more than our share. But being a human being, I have a biological right to persevere. To evolve. I can't do that if I am a negative Nancy with secret happiness. Nor can I get there if I am a Pollyanna who cries alone in the shower every day.

Anyway. If you are still reading (awwwwkward) thank you for letting me get this out there so I can start writing hilarity again without feeling like a fake. There's sadness under there, as there is in all of us, and I just didn't want to lie about it anymore.


If you need something to laugh about, I'd like to tell you that Giles is seriously giving Ozzie a pedicure right now. I don't know why, but Giles is licking Ozzie's feet, and Ozzie is letting him. Holding his paw up in the air so Giles doesn't have to bend so far. It's kind of sicking me out.


WHAT IS ON HIS PAWS?


Has he gotten on the couch since I've been home? Is it everywhere and I just can't see or smell it?


WHAT THE HELL COULD IT BE?

Bbllrrghh

I just threw up a little in my mouth.

Sickness Almost Always Cuts

I have heard on countless occasions that getting sick is simply a case of mind over matter. As someone whose matter is almost always ill this time of year, I thought I'd put that to the test. Guess what, mind-folks???

YOUR THEORY IS STUPID!

Not you, just your theory.

It all started sometime last week. I was working ten hour days, stressed to the nines, eating poorly and getting very little sleep. Also, I switched to a different insulin. I was feeling a little off. My head felt like it had grown twelve sizes and a thick layer of chinchilla fur. My stomach was going back and forth between sharp pains and rolling nausea. My back ached and my eyes felt a little droopy. I think I even said to Jero, "I feel like pooh".

After thirty one odd years, I know my body well enough to realize I was getting sick. Thinking of the repercussions to my paycheck if this thing went full blown, I decided to take a stand. So I concentrated really hard on these words:

I AM NOT GETTING SICK! FUCK SICK! SICK IS FOR WIMPS! I AM NOT A WIMP! I AM AN AMAZON WARRIOR HERE TO FUCK UP YOUR ILLNESS SCHEME WITH THE POWERS OF MY AMERICAN GLADIATOR MIND!

Every night before I fell asleep I would repeat those words. In my head, mind you, so as not to make Jero think I had finally gone batcrap crazy. Every morning I woke up feeling the same or a little worse.

On Wednesday, I woke up feeling like leprechauns had taken turns beating me and pouring whiskey down my throat. I crawled into the shower and waited for my head to clear. It did not. I got ready for work and was drinking my coffee while talking to Jero when the nausea mobile rolled up. I think nausea is in a gang because it felt like it was in one of those jacked up cars with the crazy hydraulics and the bass that turns your insides to jelly. I ran to the bathroom and was thankful I hadn't put anything solid in my stomach yet. Still, I put a smile on my face and went to work.

I was determined so many intelligent people couldn't all be SO DAMN WRONG and continued chanting my mantra day and night.

Today I awoke in a daze. It was like Cheech and Chong were reenacting their favorite days of yore just behind my eyeballs. Even after coffee, a Poptart and being at work for a couple of hours, I found that I was still having to focus really hard just to keep myself together.

Still I chanted, but with a little less enthusiasm.

I am NOT getting sick! I'm an effing Amazon. Sick BAD. Mind good. Something about fucking you up...

I decided I wanted to make my homemade mac and cheese for dinner, I told Jero as much which meant I couldn't really back out even though I didn't really want to go to the grocery store and I really didn't want to spend any more time on my feet than absolutely necessary. But I would be fine, because I wasn't getting sick.

Cooking dinner involved doing the dishes. Now, I made stuffed pork chops for dinner last night. Do you know what stuffing that was previously stuck to a baking pan and has now been soaking in apple scented soap for twelve hours looks like?

DOG POOP!

But not normal dog poop. More like the poop of a dog who has what I have AND Ebola.

I took one look at it and got violently ill.

Somewhere between wishing my bathroom was cleaner and realizing the vomit didn't care there was this little flash. I don't know if you would call it an epiphany, but it was pretty damn close.

ALL THOSE ASSHOLES ARE WRONG!

It doesn't matter what your brain says, illnesses DO exist. They are not the fucking Easter Bunny or Unibeavers. Viruses are real, folks, and every once in a while they will KICK YOUR ASS.

Sure, you can do things like eat healthy, get rest, drink non-Pepsi related products and take your Fred shaped vitamins to boost your immune system. And yes, the power of positive thinking is also real, but it's not a Godlike power. It's not a genie in a bottle or a get out of jail free card. It doesn't work like grade school where you just had to say "no cutsies" and all was resolved. Did you get that, brainiacs?

YOU CAN'T NO CUTSIES ILLNESS!

Poison Control Thinks I Am a Serial Killer

It took me many hours to post that last blog, and here is the story why. Spoiler alert: it involves fantasizing about bitch slapping the Poison Control lady.

While writing that last blog, I decided I could not wear any of my clothes to work tomorrow, and so must figure out if the washing machine was, in fact, broken.

I took the dogs down with me, because I feel like an awful pet owner every time I have to put them in their crates. It turns out, that would have been a much better solution for all involved.

As I opened the door to the laundry room, the dogs rushed in. I flipped on the light, briefly checked for violent sex offenders, and walked to my basket. When opening the door to the wash machine, I noticed my dogs trying to get something behind it. I shooed them away, and checked to see what they were after. To my horror, I found a very smooshed box of Decon.

I immediately panicked and called Jero at work. Because you know there is so much he can do from an hour away. Crying and completely out of control, I told Jero what just happened. He told me to call either Poison Control or the 24 hour Emergency Pet Hotline.

I rushed upstairs with the dogs and Googled "Poison Control", which I promptly called. A woman I will call, Captain Meanie of the Mean Ship Enterprise, Meanie for short, answered. Here is the conversation:

Meanie: Hello, Poison Control, this is "Meanie" what is your emergency?

Me: Yes, I don't know if I've called the right number or if I have to call one specifically for pets but...

Meanie: Normally yes, but our computers are down right now and we are unable to take payments, if you would like to make a donation online I might be able to help you.


Let's just ponder that for a moment. If I had told her that I would not like to make an online donation, would she have hung up on me, leaving my pets for dead? That's fucked up, Meanie, that's seriously fucked up.


Me: Of course I'll make a donation (I did not) please if you could help me.

Meanie: *sighs* What happened?

Me: I went down to our communal laundry room to do my laundry (apparently I turn into Mistress Obvious when I'm panicked. What else would I be going to the laundry room for? Crack?) and it was just a moment, I'm not sure they even ingested any, but my dogs got behind the wash machine and there is Decon back there that I didn't know my manager had put out.

Meanie: *sigh*

Me: I was just wondering if you could tell me what signs I should watch for if they have been poisoned?

Meanie: What kind of Decon was it?

Me: It was in a yellow box with black lettering that said "Decon" on the top. I didn't see anything in the box.

Meanie: *silence*

Me: I don't know if they ate any, I'm just worried. They are like my children.

Meanie: And you don't know exactly what kind of Decon it was?

Me: Dammit, Meanie, I'm a Title Clerk not an Exterminator!


Okay, I didn't really say that, but that's the sentiment of my thinking minus a million expletives.


Me: (For real this time) No, I don't, I didn't put it there. I know this sounds stupid, but...

Meanie: You just don't sound like you are taking this very seriously, and I am trying to figure out why.


Okay, let's stop again. REALLY, BITCH FACE??? I don't sound serious? I FUCKING CALLED POISON CONTROL! I just said they were my children! How much more serious could I be? Would it be better if I was sobbing so uncontrollably that you couldn't understand a word I said? Because I'm about there, lady, and you will wish for the panicked yet attentive pet owner you started out with!


Me: Nonononono! I am taking this very seriously, that's why I called. I don't know what to do or what to look for.

Meanie: Can you call the manager and find out what kind of Decon it was?

Me: Yes, I can do that.

Meanie: Okay, good. First, do you have any fresh hydrogen peroxide in your home?

Me: I have hydrogen peroxide, I don't know how fresh it is, I'll look at the bottle....it doesn't have a date on it.

Meanie: Is it open?

Me: Yes.

Meanie: Do you remember when you opened it? *sigh*

Me: No, a while ago, I don't think it's fresh.

Meanie: Do you have the ability to go and get fresh peroxide?

Me: Yes, I can do that.

Meanie: Now, first I'm going to tell you to drive safely. This blood thinner takes time to work and you seem to have caught it soon, so that's good. Okay?

Me: (Starting to cry now) okay.

Meanie: What kind of dogs are they and how much do they weigh?

Me: A Puggle, he's about thirty pounds. And a Rottweiler mix who is about seventy five pounds.

Meanie: First you are going to feed them, kibble or whatever. Then you give the little one about one ounce and the big one about an ounce and three quarters. Okay? This should induce vomiting. If it doesn't induce vomiting within fifteen minutes, give them a second dose. Call me after the first time they throw up. You are going to follow this with water. Okay?

Me: Okay.

Meanie: The most important thing is to empty their stomachs, then call your manager to find out what kind of Decon it was. Is the store you are going to close?

Me: Yes, it's a block away.

Meanie: Good. Here is my direct number to call me back. Again, my name is "Meanie".


I put the dogs in their kennels, and rushed to RiteAid. While going there, I called and left a message for my manager. The people at RiteAid looked at me like I was crazy because I was buying Hydrogen Peroxide, two rolls of paper towels, and an iced tea. I was wearing capris because all of my pants were in the wash and sandals because they were handy. I was not wearing a coat because it was also in the wash and it is December in Eastern Washington. I was also shaking.

I don't know if you've ever tried to get a dog to drink peroxide before, but it is a little bit like trying to pour a liquid that smells like dirty feet through the clenched teeth of a wolverine. I was crying, covered in peroxide, Giles was doing his high pitched whining that indicates he is unhappy and would like to not be forced to drink feet anymore. Ozzie was trying to hide from me in our tiny little kitchen where I had them pinned. There was more peroxide on me and my kitchen floor than in their tummies. I was begging them to just drink it, while trying to sound soothing.

Nobody was soothed.

My manager called and informed me that the Decon is very old. That he didn't put it down there, that the previous manager must have and that it is Decon brand Decon. Whatever the hell that means.

Fifteen minutes have gone by and no one had puked. I gave them a second dose.

I sat down at the computer to Google "Decon poisoning in dogs" and I heard retching and a thump come from my kitchen. I turned the corner to find that Ozzie had jumped the gate, Giles was puking and there were three large piles of foamy puke on my kitchen floor. Ozzie was at the door, which meant his was probably the biggest pile of vomit because he knows that he should not puke in the house and always heads for the door when he gets sick. I called Meanie back as instructed.

Meanie: This is "Meanie".

Me: Yes, Meanie, it's Sara again, I wanted to call and tell you that they both just vomited. It looks like foamy dog food.

Meanie: You don't see any of the Decon tablets in it?

Me: No, none. I talked to my manager and he says it's Decon brand Decon and it's been down there for a couple of years.

Meanie: *sigh* So, he can't tell you how much they ingested?

Me: Umm, no, he didn't put it there, a previous manager did. I'm hoping the box was empty.

Meanie: Okay, well it takes 24 to 48 hours for this to kick in, so you'll have to be very vigilant. You'll want to watch for black bloody stools and bleeding of the gums when they eat. Okay? It's good they both threw up. Okay?

Me: Okay.

Meanie: If you notice those things you can take them to a vet and they can do a blood test. There is an antidote. Okay?

Me: Okay.

Meanie: You have a nice night. Bye bye.

Me: Bye.


A nice night? Not only did you just tell me that they may not be better, but I also have a ton of foamy puke to clean up off of my kitchen floor! Oh, yeah, it's a party up in here.

Once calm, I really got to thinking about her not believing I was serious. I get that they must get prank calls because people are idiots and do not understand the importance of Poison Control or 911. What I kept thinking about is what goes through their minds when they get those types of calls.

Did she think I'm in the beginnings of my serial killer days, practicing on animals but unable to wait for the result so I called Poison Control to get a detailed description of what was going to happen? Or maybe she thought I was some hack writer, doing research for my novel about a serial killer whose MO is Decon?

Most likely she just thought I was a moron.

All I know for sure is that my house smells like feet, my dogs won't come near me, and I pray to God I never have to call Captain Meanie at Poison Control ever again.

That and how much fun Jero is going to have examining their poop for the next two days.