Irish Beef Stew Day

    It only came once a year, and finally it had rolled around. I had been reminding my friends everyday for two weeks that it was coming, and I could hardly contain my excitement. All day I sat glancing at the clock every two minutes, counting down the seconds until it was time. As the time drew nearer, my excitement grew and soon I was having trouble breathing. Finally, the bell rang and I made my way to the end of the line. Bouncing on my heels I bit my lip to hold back a string of incoherent words, babbles of excitement. The distance between me and the front of the line became shorter and shorter, until at long last, I was at the front of the line. My eyes shone with excitement, and maybe a few tears of joy. I let out a quick breath and said, "Irish beef stew, please!" The lunch-lady stared at me and sent a blow that shattered my heart, "We're all out."

Perfection in a bowl

    As today is St.Patrick's Day, I thought I would post a blog to commemorate my favorite St. Patrick's Day tradition...Irish Beef Stew. Once a year at my high school they would serve this delectable blend of carrots, potatoes, tiny onions, and meatballs. The beautiful medley would gently simmer in a broth that was of the perfect consistency. When you held the warm Styrofoam bowl in your hands you knew that the world was at peace. The gentle puffs of steam would tickle your nose and bid you to partake of this glorious creation. Dipping your spoon into the hallowed ground, you would ever so gently catch a meatball and place it to your lips. Bitting down, you close your eyes and let the taste of stew cascade over your tongue. You fight the urge to swallow, knowing that this perfect moment is fleeting. Once your bowl was empty, you would gently sweep the soft pumpernickel bread around the bowl catching every sacred drop. The rest of the day would be spent in sheer bliss, as you savored the euphoric memory of lunch time.

WHY ALL THE CRANBERRIES?!

    My junior year of high school was fairly eventful one. What with prom, the lead in the musical, and a singing solo with the orchestra, but for some reason this Irish beef stew day was a big deal to me. Maybe it was because I was getting stressed out about the upcoming musical, perhaps it was just cabin fever, but mostly it was because our school always served really crappy food. Now most people say that their school's food is bad, but this food really was bad. For some reason they would end up putting cranberries in every single dish. What you thought was a chocolate chip cookie, was really a chocolate chip/cranberry cookie. That hotdish? Yeah, it was laced with cranberries. The pre-made salad that didn't look like something you find behind a dumpster, viciously riddled with cranberries. I hated beef and cheese nacho day because the consistency of the beef and cheese together reminded me of cat poop, and cheesebread dunker day was a total fail because I could not handle that much cheese without gagging. There was not much for me to look forward to in the ways of the cafeteria, so I was out of my mind with excitement about Irish beef stew day.

He's got spirit...but no one else does

      When that awful event happened to me I promised myself that I would never be denied Irish beef stew again. I had one more shot at Irish beef stew day and I was not going to blow it. St. Patrick's Day senior year rolled around, and I was ready. Counting down the days before S-day(stew day), I would nervously question myself as to whether I would be allowed my bowl of sacred stew or not. S-day arrived and we were on a two hour early out schedule. I have no recollection of why we were on an early out schedule, but I know that we were. What happens with an early out schedule is, you basically have all of your classes crammed into the morning so you're done by lunch time. I'm sure it was some sort of pep fest or school spirit-y thing, at any rate, this meant I was in math class. I sat down in my desk and Mr.Vanderwerf told us we wouldn't be doing anything due to our shortened math period. Meekly I raised my hand and said, "Mr.Vanderwerf? Um...today is Irish beef stew day and I didn't get any Irish beef stew last year, and it's my favorite school food...so maybe you could let me go early?" He looked at me dumbfounded, but then I swear I saw I twinkle dance through his eyes. A smile broke across his lips as he told me, "Yes, Kersti, go get your stew." I packed up my things and headed down to my locker hardly believing my luck. Walking quickly I made my way to the cafeteria, and I was the first in line for Irish beef stew.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

     Triumphantly holding my bowl of stew in my hands I savored every bite. My friends sat down around me laughing to see how much I was enjoying myself. Placing the first spoonful in my mouth I smiled and the world stopped for a moment. This was so much more than a stew, this was a battle, this was a year of waiting, this was almost some kind of Sparta. Once the stew was done I turned to my friends with a bittersweet smile on my lips. The smile turned into a laugh of disbelief as I realized my teacher had let me out of class for a bowl of stew. My friends and I continued to laugh together as the disbelief kept returning. We learned an important lesson that day, never underestimate the power of Irish beef stew.

    

I Never Outgrew That

Really Good Movie: MIA

    Picture for me if you will, an excited 6 year old. She is blonde, she is chubby, and she is very excited. Why is she so pumped? Well, she is watching Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" for the fourth time since she woke up. Her 6 year old self is emitting rays of happiness and sunshine into the room about her, rays that are soon darkened by a terrible and horrifying thing...her sisters. The 11 and 12 year old look down upon their little sister in her stupor of joy. They are sick to death of the gypsy Esmeralda and the evil Frodo, they do not see why this movie should be watched again. As the 6 year old gallivants off to the kitchen to find a snack, the dark shadows move in for the kill. In the blink of an eye the movie is gone, and so are the shadows. The 6 year old comes prancing back into the room and looks around for her movie so she can watch it again, but it is nowhere to be found. That little 6 year old? She was me.

She is so awesome!

           This is a true story. My sisters hid my copy of "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" when I was 6 and I didn't find it until I was 11. In my defense they hid it really well, in fact, they hid it so well that the only reason it was found was because my mom was packing things up because we were moving. Man, that was a triumphant day. I loved that movie so much. I had an Esmeralda back-pack, her barbie, her little action figure, and I named one of my cats Esmeralda. She was the coolest Disney character ever, and I wanted to be just like her. Now why I wanted to be like a gypsy living in the sewers is hard to understand, but remember, around this time I also wanted to be a grocery clerk so...keep that in mind. My little 6 year old heart was broken the day my movie went missing, and I believe that is the reason why I still watch movies or listen to new CDs over and over again.

Just 2 little girls from Little Rock

    I first noticed that I was different when I knew all the songs to the "Wicked" soundtrack and my friends only knew the popular(ha!pun) ones. This was when I realized most people do not listen to entire soundtracks and memorize them. They do not listen to just one CD until they know all the songs, they behave like rational adults and change their CDs every now and again. I'm kind of the same way with movies, I'm sad to say. When I was home for my Spring break I watched "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes" at least 4 times, and that was in less than one week. I like to memorize every part of a movie so I can feel fully informed on it when I discuss it with my friends, at least that's what I tell myself. In reality I know that the reason I keep listening to the same CD over and over again is because the catchy parts of the song get stuck in my head. When this happens I wake up at two in the morning singing to myself, "Turn around and turn around try floating through the air", and I can't sleep until I figure out that this phrase is from "Hello Dolly's" song "Dancing". This is just the way my brain works.

Love me some Gordon MacRae!

   You make think I'm just squirreling around, but this is a very real part of my life. I remember one morning I was having a great dream about a high school that wasn't painful, and I fit in(it must've been a dream). Right as I was about to kiss the super cute boy, I hear the television blaring up from the living room. My eyes pop open and I start getting furious at my father. It is at this point that a phrase starts running through my head, "Hush you bird my baby is sleeping, maybe got a dream worth a-keepin." I had to sing it out loud repeatedly until I figured out that this particular phrase was from "Oklahoma!" in "The Surrey with the Fringe On Top". Not only do odd phrases run through my head, but phrases that fit the situation also come to mind when I see something I recall from a song.

Seriously in love with Cosmo Brown

   The old saying my piano teacher Mrs.Sperry used to tell me is true, there is a song for everything. Maybe I took that too much to heart, but damn if I can't find a song to fit every situation. Take for instance a situation where your friend has gone completely crazy and is thoroughly convinced that his toes are roses. At this point you can start singing "Moses Supposes His Toeses are Roses" from "Singing in the Rain". Now this situation is maybe not very likely, but at least I have a song in my arsenal supposing it does happen. A more likely occurrence is when you are trying to help someone with their homework. Say they are struggling with some very difficult problems, like math for instance. "If Tom is half as tall as Bob, but twice as skinny at Dan, when will Tom die of cat leukemia?" This is the time for a situational song like "Learn to Do It" from the cartoon version of "Anastasia" (which is a 20th Century Fox movie, by the way). Your friend is bummed that they have to do math so you cheerfully sing to them, "If I can learn to do it, you can learn to do it!Something in you knows it! There's nothing to it. Follow in my footsteps shoe by shoe. You can learn to do it, too!" And then they will have renewed hope in life and discover that Tom will die in 5 months from his tragic infection of cat leukemia.
    Maybe, it's a good thing that I learn all of these songs. I mean, if I can save my friend from killing themselves over a math problem or being so crazy that they think their toes are some kind of flora, that has to be a good thing. In order to preserve my peace of mind, I must first disturb it with countless songs for the sake of everyone else's peace of mind. You know, either that or I just have some kind of fixation based on a childhood mishap. But I'm gonna stick with saving the world one topical situation song at a time.

This is how I'll save the world...you can learn to do it too!

The Soccer Mom on Manners

Anything could happen!

     Saturday night, I was sitting in a small theatre excitedly waiting for the show to start. My favorite part of any show is right before it starts, because at that moment you know almost anything could happen. Looking around me I stared at the set and tried to imagine where the play would take me. It was at that time that a most unsavory item found its way into my sight-lines. Well, not so much found its way as shoved itself all up in my business. A woman was sticking her rear end in my face at a distance of less that a foot.Her butt was in my grill because she wanted to talk to the woman sitting in front of me, and the soccer mom in me was infuriated by her lack of manners. I was infuriated for a good 10 minutes, and that was a lot of posterior in my face. 

Spicy Tom's Tiny Transportation

   Honestly, is it so hard to be polite? Manners don't cost you anything and it makes life so much more pleasant for everyone involved. Like when you call a place of business and the person answers by saying, "Hello Spicy Tom's Tiny Taco Shack this is Winston", use their name when they give it to you. The correct response would be, "Hello Winston, I would like to order the teeny tiny taco tray." Then you end the conversation with the correct pleasantries. It costs you nothing and you eliminate the chances of Winston spitting on your teeny tiny taco tray.

Goat cheese man, but not smelly because he looks nice

    Another example of retail manners would be when you're at the checkout, checking out. For the love of all that is holy be nice to the cashier, they have to deal with people like you and with people like that big smelly guy in front of you who keeps asking why they won't use his expired coupon for goat cheese. If they ask you how you're doing respond with an, "I'm good, how are you?". Even if you are not in fact good, don't unload your problems on them because they have enough to deal with already (remember goat cheese man). By asking them how they are doing you are making it seem like you care and these means a lot to the retail folk (trust me, I used to be one of them). When you are polite to them, they are polite to you and your day will be filled with wonderful rays of sunshine, sprays of glitter, and herds of unicorns.

Seriously...Don't do this to people

     If you are aware of the correct politeness to use, and you do not then that makes you the big smelly goat cheese man. These are the people who steal the parking space you were so clearly going after. The individuals who think that it is okay to order a meal costing $50 and leave no tip. Our world is overpopulated with smelly goat cheese men and it is up to you to help decrease this surplus population. Do not stand in front of someone in a theater and stick your butt in their face as you talk to someone. Sit down in the chair next to them and hold your conversation that way. It makes it less awkward for everyone involved, because I'm pretty sure her chest was up in someone else's face. She is a smelly goat cheese man.

    There are so many situations where politeness should be used, and I'm going to go ahead and guess that people are very aware of these situations as they happen. For the love of Tiny Tom's Taco shack use your manners because the Soccer Mom expects it of you, and so does Winston. 

Don't let Winston down

Demon Turtles of my Youth

6th Grade art...Egyptian supposedly

     Today my mom decided it would be a good idea to clean out my closet, and for some reason I agreed...I'm pretty sure that she made my favorite food last night so I couldn't say no to her.With the taste of BBQ still on my mind I sauntered up to help clean my closet. I have a walk in closet so this was no easy feat, I mean, there is just so much crap that can be jammed onto that top shelf! Clutching her handy little step stool like some kind of cleaning Marine my mom marched into enemy territory and began the attack on keepsakes. As she began handing me box after box I was starting to regret my decision, this was a lot of prime nap time going to waste. Opening the first box I found a folder and was immediately transported back in time.

5th Grade:Jasmine and Anastasia

     I was an aspiring artist in fifth grade, and this folder was proof of my attempts at art. The pictures of princesses fell into my lap and I was mildly impressed with what I found. I mean, I could at least identify what princess I had drawn, and had gotten their facial features pretty decently. Setting aside my artwork I found a folder containing my old papers, and it was hilarious. In 8th grade I wrote an epic tale about a hippie named Smelly Stan who was left all by himself to paint the freedom van. It's good to know I was weird back then as well. Oh, and no worries about Smelly Stan he worked out all the problems he had with Flower Fran and Peace Paul, it's cool or as I wrote in my paper "groovy". Smiling a big grin at how ridiculous the story was I plunged further into the box, and was completely mortified at what I found.

DEMON!

No words to describe the horror

     "Eww!!!What the hell is this?!?!?!?" I screamed to my mother. "Throw it away!!!!!!!" This green blob was in my hands and I had no clue what it was. All I knew was that it looked suspiciously like something you find in a horror film, one of those possessed objects that comes to cut you in the night. A faint memory came forward as I looked closely at the item. Oh dear lord, I had made this monstrosity. My mom just looked at me and started chuckling as I slowly figured out what it was, the verdict? It was a turtle. His little deformed head went through the back of the hat just like it was his shell. I looked at my mom and told her it was a turtle, she just kept laughing at me as I looked at my creation in disgust. The funny thing about this was, my mom probably had to pretend at one point that she loved that turtle, my poor mother.

Oh!It's a turtle.Gross

     Thankfully, I didn't find anything else quite that scary in my boxes of mementos. It was a lot of fun to be able to look through those boxes and find old school work, toys, and pictures. My mom made sure I kept things that were important to me at one time, and they still hold that importance for me today. I was able to hold every item and remember just what it meant, and the fun I had playing with it. It took me a little over two hours to go through three boxes of keepsakes, and that didn't seem like enough time. Going through your childhood can be fun, but it sucks the energy right out of you and it made me feel old. The good news is that my closet is now completely cleaned and organized, and the scary demon turtle is in the trash. Although, I wouldn't be surprised if I woke up tomorrow morning to find him waiting for me on my floor.

Sweaty and Hungry

Me in the cold

     Just so you know, I live in Moorhead Minnesota and it's ridiculously cold here. Let me paint you a little picture of how insanely cold it is. You look out your window and see a bright blue sky and magnificently glowing sun, and so you rejoice. Walking outside with a big dumb grin on your face you find you can't move your lips, your face has been frozen. In an attempt to warm up your face you try to move your hands, which have been frozen inside your coat pockets. The only part of yourself that you can move is your legs, but you can't really move your feet. So you begin your epic journey with a very creepy minion-esc limp. I think that's the best comparison, it's so dang cold outside that you end up looking like Dr. Frankenstein's assistant. That was my month of January.

Putting on my warm clothes

      One of my New Year's resolutions was to walk more, and so I decided it would be a good idea to walk to my organ lessons. I have a lesson once a week at a church that is a couple blocks away from Concordia (my college) and I thought it would be a good idea to start walking there instead of driving. Preparing myself for the cold temperatures I wore a thick sweater, a heavy jacket, warm socks, grippy boots, earmuffs, and jeans. When I was done bundling I looked like a deranged woolly mammoth about to cross the Arctic Tundra, which was not far from the truth. I set out on my journey with determination, that was immediately swept away by the -40 degree wind that slapped my face. It felt like I was standing outside in a swimsuit instead of 80 layers of clothing. Despite the cold I pressed on toward my destination, my organ lesson was waiting.

My face with frostbite

    Trudging up 8th street I bent my head into the wind and discovered I couldn't feel my legs, this wouldn't have been a problem except I was going to need them to play the organ. Concentrating heavily on my appendages I willed my blood to circulate faster. My heart must have heard me because all of the sudden I realized how sweaty I was, and it was freaking me out. Girls are not supposed to sweat and be all gross, but I broke a stereotype that day by becoming excessively sweaty. The combination of walking and 6 shirts had taken its toll on my upper half and I wanted nothing more that to remove my coat. Keep in mind that while my upper half was boiling my lower half was reaching the early stages of frost bite and would probably need to be amputated. The wind stung my face and caused my eyes to water profusely. Now I was sweaty, tearing up, and also becoming slightly disoriented as I could swear the church was getting further away instead of closer. Fighting against all the odds I reached the church safely, if not with a slight freezer burn on my face and legs.  

Look out rabbits, I'm hungry

    Once my lesson was over I prepared myself for the journey home, which was with the wind instead of against it. Even though it wasn't as face-numbingly cold, I still became rather sweaty. It was at this point that I realized my epic hunger. It seems that battling against the Arctic winds can cause you to work up an appetite. If there had been small prey in my sights, I'm pretty sure some basic animal instinct would have kicked in and I would become conscious of my actions only after I had a big bite of raw dead rabbit in my mouth. Barreling my way through the snow and ice I finally reached my destination, the theatre lobby. My face was red, my makeup was streaking, and my hair looked like it had become caught in a wood chipper. Opening my bleary snowblind eyes in the dark lobby I spotted two of my friends. They asked how I was doing. My reply? "If I were to write an autobiography right now it would be titled Sweaty and Hungry."

Stair-Crossed Lovers

    I had my first love when I was 15. There was a glitch in my budding romance, we lived in separate towns. Whenever we would go to my beloved's town I would always stare out the window hoping to catch just one glimpse. I knew that if we were ever truly together it would be forever, and we could live happily ever after. Sitting in the backseat of my parent's car I would beg them to take me around the block so I could have the chance to see my love and say what I felt, but it can hard to tell a house how you feel.

Turret=Love

    This was no ordinary house, oh no, this house was an old Victorian. It had this gorgeous dusty orange brick on the outside and the coolest turret on the front. My love struck eyes ignored the overgrown weeds and the obvious state of dilapidation the house was in. Each time I saw the house my love for it grew and my heart broke to think of it sitting there all empty and neglected. I would love it and care for it so it would never be abandoned again. The beauty of love and imagination is that money is never an object. In my fantasies I magically acquired the deed to the house, the means to fix it up, and original Victorian furniture to fill it with. I was so obsessed with getting this home that I would have actual dreams that involved me buying it and fixing it. I'm sure by now you've noticed there are a few things wrong with this picture, first and foremost what is mentally wrong with this kid? Second of all, what 15 year-old falls in love with a house? And thirdly what 15 year-old thinks she can fix it up by herself with just an after school minimum wage job to support her? Being the realist that I was I knew my chances of ever even seeing the inside of the home were slim, but that all changed one October day.

Sarcasm=Blindfold

   We had a day off from school, and I was thrilled beyond belief. For some reason I hated being forced to go to an establishment between the hours of 8:30 and 3:15 for five days a week to learn, go figure. I was voicing the joy I had of sleeping in to my parents, when they told me I would not be sleeping in. "Why not?", I asked them very indignantly. "It's a surprise.", they answered. This really piqued my interest and I kept peppering them with questions, none of which were answered. Finally, they got fed up with me and told me to go to bed. The next morning arrived and they told me to get dressed and ready to go. As we walked toward the car I asked them sarcastically if they were going to put a blind-fold on me...they did. Now my curiosity was off the charts and I had no idea what was going on. My dad drove the car all around the country side and had me thoroughly confused. I felt the car lurch to a stop and my parents told me to take off my blind fold. Removing the dark fabric from my eyes I blinked up at the most beautiful sight I had ever seen, it was My House.
    My parents explained that even though there was no way they'd be able to buy it for me(it was a freaking house after all), they had been able to arrange a tour. The realtor led us up to the front door and carefully opened it. There was so much adrenaline running through my veins it felt like I was floating. Stepping into that house was the most amazing experience. She led us around the tattered home describing the history of the house, even tracing it back to the original owners. I lovingly ran my hand along the railing as we made our way upstairs, hardly believing this was happening. We got the whole tour, from the attic to the basement and I was so in love I was at a loss for words. I was barely able to stammer out a thank you to the realtor when we found our way back onto the front step. Instead of my love diminishing at the sight of disrepair, my 15 year-old heart began to swell with even more tenderness for My House.

Hanging Lamp=Fantastic

   About two years after I met my love, it was bought by someone else. My heart was torn in two as I realized I would not be the one to lovingly fix and beautify every inch of My House. When we would drive by I could see the scaffolding shoved up against the gorgeous dusty orange brick. I was glad someone else loved My House and was taking care of it, but I couldn't help but wish I'd had the means to take care of it myself. One day when the repairs were all finished my dad said we should stop by and see if they would let us look in. My House had been turned into business offices and who better to go to a business office than people(that's what I told myself anyway to make it less awkward). The owner was in and she gave us the tour. Every corner of My House had been brought back to life, and it was beautiful. A large Tiffany-esqu lamp hung from the inside of the turret making a place that would be perfect for reading. A bittersweet smiled came to my lips as I looked at all the love that had been poured into fixing My House.
    Not all love stories have a happy ending, but at least this one is happier than Romeo and Juliet...I'm almost positive no one died. While My House was never able to be my one true love, at least it got the care it needed from someone who loved it just as much. Each time My House and I cross paths I am able to look up at it and smile, knowing that someday another dilapidated Victorian will capture my heart. But I know that even when that house comes along it will never take the place of My House, my first real love.

Fish-haps (Fish and Mishaps)

Look closely at the top left...I promise they are there

   Bleary eyed I rolled out of bed and stumbled toward my computer. The clock said 9am, far too early for me on a Saturday morning. I sat down in my chair and popped open my laptop, and I decided to look over at my fish tank. Rubbing my eyes I yawned and greeted Captain and Tennille, and then I saw speck darting quickly around the tank. Blinking my eyes in disbelief I looked closely and saw a very tiny pair of eyes hovering above the neon rocks at the bottom of the tank. Upon further investigation I found four more pairs of tiny eyes, they were baby guppies. This put me in a moral dilemma, I knew that these babies were as good as dead if I left them in their tank, but I also didn't want to take the time to try and catch these minuscule fish. In the end the good angel won out and I began scooping around the tank, rescuing one stupid baby guppy at a time.
    When I was little I used to have goldfish all the time, it was the only indoor pet we were allowed to have. I had the coolest tank, it was blue with a filter and everything. At any given time I had at least two goldfish, if not three. The goldfish I remember the most was One-Eyed Jack, who was named by my sister. In case you didn't catch this, One-Eyed Jack had a disability, he was missing one eye. Where his little beady fish eye should have been, there was an empty socket. Sadly, there are no eye patches for fish so he had to swim around with his eye socket all bare and exposed. I won't lie, it kind of creeped me out, but as time went on I grew to love him. He was a great fish I guess, and he lived to be 2 years old so he was a tough cookie.

Looks exactly like him

   Eventually, I grew sick of having fish, and cleaning their tank became absolutely disgusting. So after a while when my fish died I stop buying new ones, which was a good thing because I've been known to have a few mishaps with fish. The first one wasn't my fault, it just scarred me for life. I was cleaning out my sister's fishbowl for her (cause I'm a good person like that), and one of her guppies had been missing for a few days. How can a fish go missing? I had no idea, but I found out quickly. I discovered it had died inside one of the seashells in the tank. This was brought to my attention as I was rinsing out the shell and a dead fish fell into my hand, and it was one of the grossest things I have ever had happen to me. The next incident was my fault and I still feel bad for the poor guy. I was cleaning out my fish tank so I had to put my fish in a little cup while I cleaned. As I was scooping up one fish, I ended up dropping him and he fell down the sink. No more was he to swim happily around my tank, he was dead and I was a fish murderer.

I'm getting a bad reputation

    Alas, that was not the last fish murder I committed. Last year when I was a bright eyed and eager freshman, I decided to buy some goldfish from Wal-Mart. Happily I picked out four goldfish to live in the little plastic tank I had purchased, complete with a neon cave and neon rocks. I brought them back to my dorm room, got the tank ready, and left the plastic bag in the tank water to allow them time to adjust to the new temperature. Eventually I let them out of the bag and they began to swim around. The next morning I woke up to greet them, and all of them were dead. Four dead fish bodies were staring up at me, declaring me a murderer. I invited a few close friends over to stand watch as I placed the lifeless fish into the toilet. We all said a few words and I softly whistled "Taps" as I flushed them to the great beyond. But this did not stop me from wanting to buy new fish, oh no it did not. The very next day I went to the pet store and decided to buy a beta. I had heard that betas were good, sturdy fish and probably wouldn't die on me. So I brought John-Boy home and gave him plenty of time to adjust to his new tank. He lasted two weeks, and then another funeral procession was held.

Ebb in all his glory

   I was worried that no fish could live in my presence, maybe I had committed some sort of sin against fish and all fish that I owned were automatically doomed to die. With my last ray of hope I went back to the pet store and bought two guppies. I carefully placed them in the tank, willing them to live. Hoping it would help I decided to give them very strong names: Ebb and Flo. Ebb was a bright orange color with a white belly and Flo was a rather translucent white. They appeared to be very happy in their home and frolicked all around the tank in their own fish way. Nervously I kept an eye on them, and soon I had owned them for over a month. They were going to make it! Then one evening as I came back from dinner I looked into their tank, and 5 black specks were at the top. Confused, I looked closely and I discovered that my fish had not only lived, they had reproduced! In a fit of joy I let out a shriek and quickly moved the babies into their own separate tank, because I knew from my online research that guppies had a tendency to eat their babies. Yeah, guppies are messed up.
    My roommate and I decided to name the babies the 5 Davids after our acting professor. Two of the Davids went on a treacherous journey with me to Omaha. They were placed in a coolwhip container and I buckled them into the passenger seat. To my great joy they lived and made it to the daycare center my sister worked at, they were renamed Milo and Otis. Another one of the Davids went to live with a friend of mine who named him Finn. The last two Davids stayed with me and were rechristened Laverne and Shirley. Not long after the birth of her children, Flo passed away. It was a difficult time for Ebb, but with the help of his ridiculously short memory he forgot she had ever been there. When I would go home for long vacations my fish traveled with me, and it was a trying time for all of us. The babies would fit very nicely in the cupholder because I kept them in a small plastic container, but Ebb was another story. I had to empty his tank of most of the water and carefully place him on the floor of my car, making sure the neon cave was secure enough not to fall over and squish him. Somehow we all made it through these trips without anyone falling out of their tank.

Shirley

    As the months went by Laverne and Shirley grew, and Ebb stayed exactly the same. Then, one fateful July day Ebb went on to join Flo. With my head hung low I led the funeral procession to the bathroom. My eulogy for him was heartfelt and passionate. He had been my fish, and we had truly bonded when he lived behind my laptop. He would always follow my finger as I moved it around the outside of his tank. It took all the strength I had to lift my arm and flush him away. Later that summer Shirley went on to join her parents in the great fishbowl in the sky. It was just me and Laverne.

Captain and Tennille

    Went I got back to college in the Fall I decided it would be a good idea to get a friend for Laverne, so I went to the pet store and picked out a very pretty half black guppy. His name was Squiggy, and he got along pretty well with Laverne. In my mind I planned out their happy lives, filled with lots of baby guppies and maybe even move them to a bigger tank. But this was not to be, as Laverne soon passed away. In case you've lost track, at this point I have killed 9 fish in  little over a year. If I wasn't careful I would soon be into the double digits...I wasn't careful. My euphoria for Christmas break was so great, that as I was shopping I forgot the Squiggy was still in my car in the back seat. I happily spent two hours finding amazing deals at the Albertville outlet mall. When I got to my sister's house I found Squiggy dead in the cold backseat. As I walked into the house my three year old niece shouted out her greetings, and I decided she was old enough to learn about death. Together we took Squiggy into the bathroom and I let her have the honors of flushing him down the toilet. It seemed as though my fish days were over.

Sturdy and no mess!

    You might think that the death of 10 fish would  dissuade me from buying anymore, you should know by know that I'm not that smart. A few weeks ago I went into the pet store and I picked out Captain and Tennille. They looked like sturdy fish, in fact, they resembled Ebb and Flo. We are about a month into it and I'm happy to say that they are still going strong, and they are the proud parents of: Anni-Frid, Benny, Bjorn, and Agnetha (in case you don't know those are the singers of ABBA). I like to think that the birth of these guppies makes up for the death of my other fish, and that someday I can own a fish for over a year. Or maybe I should just give up on fish and get a sturdier pet...like a rock.