qwerty-asdeff

[rottenappleheart]

a fish story

Shortly after my sister moved in with me (i.e. before everything went to shit) a coworker offered me his fishtank. He was moving and couldn’t take it. I’d kept a number of betta fish before, quite successfully, but this was a step up--lights. heater, bubble filter, the works. All for free. Even for a ten-gallon tank it was nifty.

It definitely helped that I was working at the pet store at the time. (I’ve talked about that before.) I had a lot of coworkers able to help me out with how to make it work, and time to think through and build the tank up from empty, and a hefty employee discount. The general rule of thumb I was told, regarding aquariumsize, was “one gallon per inch of fish.” 

We got cobra guppies, because they were one inch each. 

I loved them. Slim and quick as bettas, but school-oriented instead of aggressive. Their tails grew in rings like a tree, and the longer we had them, the more rings their tails developed. We had five of them and could always tell them apart. We named them all for characters in the Foreigner series: Algini and Tano, Banichi and Jago and Bren. Bren was the smallest and plainest-colored, and was the most timid, and Jago-fish was the most attentive to him. It was very canonically pleasing.

When I left, the guppies were still going strong. The other denizens of the tank came and went. At different times, we tried keeping ghost shrimp and a rubber-nosed pleco to keep the tank clean. For a short period we had a red-tailed shark named Tabini, but he was harassing the guppies too much (which was also canonically pleasing, but not... good... pet ownership.) There was an era when we were both too stressed and depressed to do more than feed the fish and provide basic cleaning and water changes, and during that time the live plants in the tank erupted into a jungle. The fish didn’t seem to mind, but we didn’t see them too often, hidden in the foliage. It seemed like a healthy tank.

Stores out west were different than they are out here. In this region, I would never consider buying fresh produce at a Walmart. Ick! But the produce section of the Walmart out there was better than most of the produce sections in regular grocery stores here. And, weirdly enough, they had a substantial fish section.

(There was also a fish specialty store in town. I just remembered that. This grody, damp, dripping, cavernous place, pitch black except for the light of the tanks. The weirdest most delightful place.)

In Walmart’s fish section we found out about such a thing as a freshwater pufferfish. Little spotted blimp with goggle eyes and a crunchy beak like a parrot. I had to have one. We did our research, fudged our numbers, fussed with the temperature and the chemistry of the tank until it was within the acceptable living range for both guppies and puffers, and brought Prakuyo home.

Prakuyo ate the river snails that lived off the plants in the tank. The shells were an important part of his diet and useful for sharpening his little parrot beak. During the great jungle explosion, the number of snails in the tank reached 100+; in five days Prakuyo had cleaned out the lot and bumped around for more. I became one of Those People who came into the pet store saying “can you please just fill up a bag with snails?” 

You could hear him crunching. He was very friendly and attentive to things outside the tank in a way that the guppies weren’t. If you came in, he would follow you from side to side of the tank until you came over to feed him.

Big-little blob fish and his sleek shimmering companions. I don’t know what happened to them. I hope they lived good lives.

[rottenappleheart]

My parents had a few tapes that we listened to over and over again. I think everyone of my generation had the same experience. In my mind, certain songs have a permanent warbling warp effect due to melted tape; there is another song whose ending verse I have never heard, because the cassette cut it short.

The over ‘n over tapes were these: John Denver, Gordon Lightfoot, two Bill Cosby shows, a recording of traditional sea shanteys we picked up at Mystic Seaport, The Harp of Brandiswhiere (I’ve learned of a book that tells the story behind the music, but we had made up our own tale based on the song titles a long time ago and nothing will ever beat that), the “Gettysburg” soundtrack, and an assortment of old country music: Dolly Parton, Crystal Gayle, Waylon Jennings.  

(I grew up completely unfamiliar with what other people considered “staples” – the Eagles, the Beatles, Johnny Cash, whatever. Most of our “oldies” were usually measured in centuries rather than decades.) 

I’ve regathered most of these, but the country tape is crystallized in my heart exactly as it was, and I’ve never really gone out of my way to track most of it down. It’s not “my” music. 

Every now and then, though, something will drift into my head—something I haven’t heard in ten years or so. The only songs I have ever heard elsewhere are “Jolene” and “Convoy.” 

But as I’m flipping through the latest heartwarming interstellar road trip novel, the music in my head whispers “mad is the crew bound for Alpha Centauri, dreamers and poets and clowns...”  

“You’re The Reason Our Kids Are Ugly” almost made it onto my silly love songs mix.

 And all this morning I’ve been hearing “same old jailbreaker, running away” as I reflect on where I am.

I know these stories aren’t terribly interesting, tumblr, but I like telling them. I like making the good parts of my memories real, even for a little bit, so that I don’t doubt that they happened. I don’t want to be the only person who remembers who I used to be.

[rottenappleheart]

a friend's pet

@notaduckling and her family adopted a greyhound a few years ago. He came straight off the racing track and had never been a “house” animal before. 

He also looked like an alien. Sure, tumblr makes greyhounds look cute and whimsical, but in real life? They’re the horrifying moose-spiders of the canine world. Especially when they’re fresh off the track. Approximately one mile of nose and eight of legs, each, with the most thunderously muscular thighs ever seen this side of a Clydesdale. (It was especially jarring to meet him given that the dog I was living with at the time was a basset hound, or, the opposite of a greyhound in every possible way.)

He was the gentlest dog, used to being handled, but not at all used to comfort or silliness or joy. He didn’t understand the concept of levels or stairs. He didn’t understand toys. He understood that they were his, but not what to do with them. He would pick toys up very carefully with the tip of his teeth… and put them down again… and pick them up once more, in seeming distress. He didn’t know what to do.

He was also missing most of his molars and had only his front teeth left. Couple this with a long, thin snout, and, well… what are teeth for but holding your tongue in place? When he lay on his side, his tongue would just fall sideways out of his lips. Even if they were closed. Just a little pink tongue lolling out due to gravity and bad dental care. 

Love has been poured into this dog like he will never be full enough. He gets bathed with the nice conditioner. He gets peanut butter pretzel bites and, when it’s hot, dog-safe ice cream. He has a blanket spread across half the couch that designates it as His Own (and believe me, he requires half the couch.) He has coats for cold weather and a skeleton jacket for Halloween, being a skinny black monstrosity of a dog. After dinner, the dad of the family often stretches out on the floor and spoons him. We all whisper loving nonsense in his goofy ears and tug his little feet and rub his fattened-up tummy.

When greyhounds are happy, they puff out their cheeks like a little blowfish. 

It is one of the greater delights of my life to have this dog puff with joy when I come over.

[rottenappleheart]

By the way, I really appreciate y’all sending me “true story” asks. I’ve been feeling very disconnected lately, between the whole estrangement thing and the fact that I keep moving back and forth across the country and losing touch with friends. Sometimes I feel like a ghost, just this sack of memories no one else knows. It makes me feel good to talk about things I remember which no one else does anymore.

[rottenappleheart]

something about a disney movie

Growing up, we didn’t watch TV. The TV was for movies only, and movies were on Sunday nights. 

My mom would make pizza. We would try to steal pinches of the salty dough before she finished rolling it out. One pepperoni, one mushroom-and-black-olive, on the two blistered black cookie sheets we always used. 

Every other week, one of us kids would be assigned to make up a fresh batch of ranch dressing. Milk to the halfway mark in the canister, then the ranch powder mix, then scoops of mayonnaise until the milk reached the upper mark. Then the zigzag lid went on and shake, shake, shake until it became dressing instead of murk. The salad was always iceberg lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and mushrooms. Sometimes we got croutons. I liked croutons.

Sunday movie nights were also the only time we had soda. Orange Slice for my sister, root beer or an IBC Black Cherry or Cream Soda for me, a Pepsi for my mom. Or was it Coke? I should know this. Dad almost always just had water.

Whatever we watched had to be parent-approved. By that I don’t just mean G-rated. I’ve seen a lot of old black-and-white movies that many people my age haven’t even heard of, and missed a lot of other staples. I’ve never seen “Braveheart,” “Titanic,” “Die Hard,” “Home Alone”… Even “Gone With The Wind,” although I have seen “Ben-Hur.” And “Gettysburg.” On the other hand, I still have nightmares about Darby O’Gill and the Little People. (For whatever reason, “Zorro The Gay Blade” was a favorite. I don’t know how that passed muster.)

Obviously, Disney movies were usually a go. Looking through the list, I’ve seen almost all of the original movies from the 1940s and so on, and fewer as time goes by… The Three Caballeros, Melody Time, Davy Crockett, In Search of the Castaways. I can still remember all the songs. Pete’s Dragon made (makes) me cry. My folks had them recorded on carefully labelled VHS tapes that were sometimes missing beginnings and endings. (Do y’all remember how big and chunky those blister cases for VHS movies were?)

Fantasia was always one of my favorites. Probably the closest I have ever been to being high was when I had taken codeine for a cold and watched Fantasia with my extended family. That was a wild ride.

I can’t think of anything I loved more deeply and consistently than The Rescuers Down Under, though. 

These were probably not the Disney movies you were asking about, but in all seriousness, I looked at the list of Disney movies and saw my entire terrible live-action childhood pass before my eyes.

[rottenappleheart]

hiking

I talked somewhere before about the reservoir by my mountain home and when it froze into “candle ice.” This is my favorite summer reservoir story.

For the record, hiking is not a thing I generally do. Love the outdoors, hate sweating more than almost anything else in life. My ideal nature experience has a parking lot nearby. What can I say–I have noodly limbs and like it that way (read: too opposed to sweating to ever rectify.)

I can be convinced to make an exception if the hike leads somewhere sufficiently interesting. Waterfalls, for instance. Or if I can see the destination the entire time and can gauge the distance versus my motivation, which was the case with the reservoir.

My cakefriend had been living there for a few years longer than I had, and knew all the local secrets I was still stumbling across at random. In early September she said that we should go swimming in the reservoir. The water had been baking in the summer sun for months and it would never be warmer. We put on our bathing suits and shorts and boots and headed up. Parked our car at the top and began the long switchback trail down through the scrub, eyes peeled for rattlesnakes and ears tuned to the jangle of mountain bikes ricocheting down the rocks behind us. 

During the winter, the slope ends in a few yards of gritty flat mud. All the water is locked in ice higher up the mountains. As the weather warms, the ice melts and the reservoir billows. Deep, deep blue-green waters, a mile or two wide and six long, a glittering sliver of beauty between the marching ranks of the foothills.

I hadn’t been down to the bottom of the reservoir in the summer yet. The gritty shore was completely gone. The stubby trees on the lowest slopes were drowned to the tips of their branches.

My cakefriend led me to a boulder I had hiked past in the winter, shed her shoes, and jumped straight off the edge into deep, deep water. The reservoir had came to meet us halfway up the trail.

[rottenappleheart]

Because notyourcat is always such a beautiful sight - cats.

My sister and I used to volunteer at a local animal rescue. Basic stuff–making sure food and water dishes hadn’t been knocked over midday, socializing the cats, reporting on the general personalities of newcomers who hadn’t been assessed yet. Not actual work, really, just petting two dozen cats for an hour or so.

“He came in this weekend. He’s being kept by himself until we’ve gotten him checked out. Why don’t you go say hi?”

We opened the door. Empty room, cat tower in the middle. 

Then: a low, rumbling growl.The animal rescue employee shut the door behind us, just as The Ugliest Cat On Earth poked his head out of hiding.

Words can’t do this fella justice, but I’ll try my best. Take a white Persian cat. Then imagine its fur was all matted and stained, so someone SHAVED IT like a bloody POODLE. Skinny shivering flesh everywhere except for a big ol’ puff of fuzz around the ankles, the tip of the tail, and muttonchops around the face. 

Then make it CROSS-EYED.

Then let one lower fang just JUT SIDEWAYS out of its PERMANENTLY GAPING MOUTH.

This magnificent creature, growling like a Doberman, bounding toward us… and winding around our legs, flopping on his back, wriggling wantonly, desperate for affection. It turns out that growl was his approximation of a purr. We commenced the snuggling.

And learned about the final indignity fate had wrought upon this cat: he DROOLED constantly. Streams of cat saliva just dribbling everywhere, all over you as you petted him.

The Ugliest Cat.

The sweetest cat, too, though.

[rottenappleheart]

OH FOR THE LOVE

I was about to delete that ask because tumblr gave me no notifications

apparently a lot of you messaged me

I’LL GET ON THAT SORRY

storytime

[rottenappleheart]

Give me a topic and I'll tell you a true story.