You Didn't Miss Much
What's In A Title

And I Will Call This Cocktail The Prim Reaper

When I spoke to my mother this morning I informed her that I was in the process of driving home my new fish.

There was a pause. Then she said, "Am I to take it that you've suffered a bereavement?"

Ah. Ah yes. Sorry. Forgot that part. A moment of contemplation, please, for Skye the ex-Betta. He was a good fish, as fish go, and as fish go... he went as slowly as was piscatorially possible. Seriously. When was it that I first mentioned the fact that Skye had taken to floating topside and I was looking into ways to end his suffering? You know, when I *WINK WINK* told Steve I wanted to euthanize the fish? December?

[Yes it was December. I looked it up.] 

Do you know how disconcerting it is to have a fish who hangs out upside-down at the waterline? Very. I cannot tell you how many times I glanced at his tank, tsk'd in sorrowful acceptance of life's great circle before poking at his lifeless corpse... only to have him twist away and frisk off again. Not to mention the fact that he needed to be fed by hand. For months

I know the term Blessed Release is thrown around a lot - mainly by people in nineteenth century novels who have just come into an inheritance - but it is hard to overemphasize just how very blessed this release was. Very.

Still, when I determined yesterday morning that this time Skye was really (really and truly and utterly) dead I felt sad.

"Oh. Oh dear." I announced to the house at large, "Skye is dead."

"Shrug!" hollered Edward from the other room.

"How can you tell?" called down Patrick.

"Finally!" sympathized my husband.

Only Caroline bothered to join me by the aquarium. She looked at Skye in silence and then put her hand on my arm.

"Can I bury him in the yard right now?" she asked with an enthusiasm I found to be in poor taste.


"Great!" she said and skipped off to find a box.


So I was recounting all of this to my mother and emphasized my general sense of relief that Skye had been mercifully released from this tank of tears by explaining that as recently as Saturday I was googling painless ways kill fish.

My mom laughed and said that it was nice to know I am so compassionate since I will no doubt be tending to her declining years as well. "I'm glad you put painless in there," she said.

"Of course," I said. Then I added, "I was leaning toward a combination of clove oil and vodka, by the way."

There was another pause and then she said, "I could do worse."

I love my mom.


This my new fish. I have named him... Cherry.

And speaking of football (heh heh. sly) I would like to reiterate for the Official World Wide Internet Record that I divorced Chelsea before Diego Costa got all... what WAS that? The pushy shove-y nuzzling bitey FA Cup hug violation? I didn't think he needed a red card so much as a psychiatrist.

On that note I have more recorded football to watch, not to mention an entire season of college basketball upon which I must educate myself. Go... Huskies? Did they make it? Does anyone have five seconds to tell me who's good this year?

PS My subconscious has apparently been working on the question of vodka and clove because I just said ah ha! and discovered that while I was typing this the rest of me was rounding out an imaginary cocktail with orange and maybe red wine. A sort of winter sangria.