A few weeks ago, I recounted the sad news that Hooman lost a fish to that big tank in the sky.
Well, today, I almost murdered Nickels fish.
And it all goes back to my appalling lack of/desire for/interest in cleaning.
Somehow, the enviable task of cleaning fish bowls has fallen on me for the past several weeks. After I had watched others in the house do this chore, I decided I might have a quicker way.
This morning, sub-7a.m., I "conditioned" filtered water* so it would be ready after I returned home. Mr. Blue Fish was transferred to a "holding tank"** and I washed the bowl and stones and poured in the now perfectly tempered water. Everything but the fish was in place.
In my infinite wisdom***, I decided to pour Mr. Blue back into his bowl AFTER pouring most of the water out of his temporary home. And that's where trouble started.
See, I hadn't really gotten around to cleaning out the right side of the sink after dinner or breakfast. And there was quite a collection of dishes, hanging out, waiting for their proper rinse and deposit in the dishwasher.
To point, in this side of the sink were the following:
1. Large frying pan containing remnants of the white sauce from last night's pasta dinner
2. Large sauce pan with steamer insert from broccoli (again, dinner)
3. Medium stirring bowl used to make morning muffins
4. Medium sauce pan from breakfast's boiled eggs
5. Miscellaneous utensils
6. Strawberry "tops" cut so berries could be sliced for lunch boxes
and 7. Egg yolks removed to placate picky eaters.
It was quite the collection. And, I had already run ONE load in the dishwasher this morning****.
And over said collection, I began pouring Mr. Blue from one container to the next.
That's when I rediscovered an inconvenient little fact: fish are slippery. So slippery that Mr. Blue took a perfect 10 dive from one cup straight into the potpourri of grossness that was my sink.
All I could get out of my mouth was "Blue fish in drain. Blue fish in drain. Blue fish in drain." It was a weak attempt to communicate to Mike that I needed help. NOW!
I started pulling stuff out of the sink at lightning speed. All my brain could think was "OHMYGOSHHEISDOWNTHEDRAINANDTHATISDISGUSTINGBUTIHAVETOSAVEHIM." After all, this is my son's fish! And, Heaven forbid, I should be the one who orchestrated an accidental***** hit on his fish.
Turned out, lucky guy had fallen into the big frying pan full of creamy white sauce. Adding to his already slippery exterior was the fact that now he was swimming in an olive oil-based goo. "Slime" doesn't cover it.
After I managed to save him and rinsed him off, I dropped him back into his normal dwellings and he was all deflated. Literally. This is a Betta we're talking about here, and his fins were basically GLUED to his body. No thanks to the cream sauce, I'm sure.
So, I did what any desperate Mother would do, short of giving the little guy CPR: I moved his tank close to his mortal enemy, Mr. Red.
And after about 30 seconds he was all "I'M A GONNA TAKE YOU DOWN, RED. SEE ME? I'M PUFFING UP BECAUSE I'M BAD. FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIKE A BEE."
As you can tell, he's back in "Japanese fighting fish" form. But, for the next 24 hours, I'm going to be watching that little dude, just being sure he's OK.
Mike asked if I would come clean with Nickels on this whole sordid mess.
The jury's still out on that one.
*Not water out of the tap or toilet but out of the refrigerator door. Read: Pampered fish.
**Reminds me of jail. I wonder, if every two seconds when his brain recycles, if he thinks the same thing and gets that feeling of "OH NO!!! Why am I in the clinker?"
***Which, in this case, would fit on the head of a pin.
****I know you are jealous of my cleaning prowess but PLEASE don't hold it against me.
*****Which reminded me of the scene in Pulp Fiction where the kid in the back seat gets shot and John Travolta's character is all "WHAT? It told you it was an accident?"
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