Thursday, March 17, 2011

Mexican fish

It’s late. Finished two massages tonight, then went and pigged out. PIGGED out! Let me rewind. Last night, I was craving one of my favorite Mexican places, Patzcuaro’s. OH. MY. GANDHI. So freaking good. Anyway, by the time I had a moment for dinner, it was after nine. I pulled up, all excited, had my iPod ready to watch the latest episode of Top Chef ([spoiler alert] Carla left, damn it! I wanted her to win!), ready to chow down on slow roasted pork that you tear apart yourself and eat with homemade corn tortillas, and finish with two of biggest sopapillas you could ever imagine—and the best you’ve ever had. Their door was locked. I screamed and cursed and pounded on the window, tears flowing down my cheeks. Okay, not really, but I felt like it. Instead I went to another Mexican place that’s two blocks from my house. I pigged out there thinking it would curb my craving (but knowing it wouldn’t). It didn’t. So, I was able to arrive at Patzcuaro’s tonight by 8:15. When I left a little after nine, the waiter said, “Wow! You can eat. That was a lot of food!” I took back my tip. Not really, but I should have. You don’t judge the people who are paying you. Unless you’re a massage therapist. Or therapist of any kind, actually. But, really. I gave up on the whole working out and loosing weight thing three weeks ago. I’m having surgery and won’t be able to work out for weeks. Might as well enjoy it while I can eat food without hurting. I know, I know. I should have upped my workouts and diet so that I’d be in better shape after it was all over. I suck. Yeah, yeah. Fuck you. Now, I am lying on my heated massage table, the puppies playing below, the new fish tank gorgeous beside me, completely and satisfyingly stuffed. And when I say lying, I actually mean high centered on the tale. Just in time for a date tomorrow. What a lucky guy he is!
Speaking of the fish tank, all the rocks and driftwood have been boiled (it was a horrible process) and it is now a live plant/live-bearer fish fish-tank. And, once again, it is GORGEOUS! More than ever before. Really. I’m completely in love with it. I come down and turn on the heaters (table and space) and simply watch the fish in the dark with the puppies for about half an hour every night. Several are pregnant. Babies soon. Yay!!!!! It’s exactly how I wanted it to be. However… the last traumatic experience has changed me. (Seriously, how many more traumatic experiences are going to change me—let’s not find out!) Yesterday I noticed two fish that looked a little iffy. Without much thought, I placed my hand in the tank and scooped them up (yes, with my hands, watching the stupid fish people at the store battle around trying to catch the fish I want for hours at a time drives me crazy, but they have some rule that customers can’t catch their own—makes much more sense to have incompetent people get paid and waste my time), said a very brief, ‘I’m sorry,’ and flushed them down the toilet. Horrible, I know. Absolutely heartless. However… maybe my heartlessness will save the lives of all the others in the tank. I can’t go through another black plague. Once I am certain that the tank is disease free, I will be shrinking myself down, turning into a merman and living in the tank. Truly, I wanna move in—it’s like a perfect little world in there. It’s pretty, magical looking, and no one breaks your heart. Hell, even if they do, what are they gonna do? Move out? Well, have fun floppin’ on the floor! It’s pretty perfect. Except for that big human hand that scoops you out and flushes your ass if you don’t appear to be a perfectly healthy specimen. Well, every space has it’s challenges.

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