I went to the pet store today to buy a fish for my friend’s birthday–if you knew her you would know this is the perfect gift. Anyway, I stupidly brought along Muffin, failing to recognize that the cuteness of her desiring a pet fish would deplete my fair supply of “nos” that are provided to all moms when they leave the hospital.
So, I find myself at the counter ruminating to the check out girl that I can’t believe I am buying my kid a fish, since it’s like paying to add more chores to my already overwhelming list.
Do you know what that twat says to me?
“It’s really not that much work to own a beta.” She then proceeds to tell me, step-by-mother-fucking-step how to clean a god-damned Beta bowl. No lie. A play by play. What idiot doesn’t know how to clean a beta bowl?
I am shocked, on many levels, but I am a gracious person (outwardly, to strangers at least), so I take the time to explain to her that 1) I do in fact know how to clean a Beta bowl since I have owned many in my life, including a college fish that–no lies–lived for like six years through dorm life and weeks of no food. It was indestructible. It was also really cute because when I would come home it would swim around in circles, so it had personality. 2)I was merely referring to the fact that I am already swamped with things to do and am willingly heaping another thing which I may or may not accomplish and which will result (or not) in added guilt, which leads to vodka and counseling. You know, hypothetically speaking.
She stares at me with a blank expression at which point I realize I am putting a wedding dress on a dead horse. My guess is she does not have kids. Or much responsibility, besides feeding betas and berating weary working moms by explaining that taking care of them is easy.
My new chore’s name is Friggit.