Sundays In My City

Have you ever done something and then later thought, “What the heck was I thinking?” Yeah, me neither. I carefully think out ever moment of my day, planning exactly what I should do and how it will positively affect my life and the lives of those around me. Is that laughter I hear? Ok, fine!  My sisters are right. I am a big, fat, liar.

The truth is, I fly by the seat of my pants and feel as if I am in an episode of I Love Lucy on a fairly regular basis. I don’t know why. I have read every book, listened to every tape, gone to every seminar on living an organized, balanced life. Part of the problem may lie in the fact that I have no idea where I put half that crap I bought at those things. Maybe if I knew, I could refresh my memory and be balanced, calm, serene, peaceful, normal. 

Anyway, this is the sadly true story of one of my bright ideas. I seriously could have used Fred and Ethel that day.

We have a pond. Two years ago, it was basically fish-less. See where this is going? Being the resourceful woman that I am, I decided that we should stock the fish-less pond with fish. This way, when Y3K or Armageddon happened, we would have fish to eat. Being the generous person I am known to be, I thought it only right that we stock the fish-less pond with enough fish to also feed our neighbors. You know, in case of Y3K or Armageddon. So I spent weeks researching the best way to stock a 2.5 acre almost fish-less pond. I called local fisheries, spoke with other pond owners and pulled out my survivalist, I mean, self-sufficient farming books. I was armed and ready to order my fish.

So, I ordered my one thousand fish. Yep. Eight hundred catfish and two hundred bass. That’s one thousand fish. But wait! What about crappie? Every well stocked pond has to have crappie in it. So I ordered two hundred crappie, too.

Finally, the day came to pick up my twelve hundred fishies. I jumped into our old, beat up Suburban at six in the morning and headed to the Bethany feed store where the fish truck would be waiting with all my lovely fish. By the time I arrived thirty minutes later, there was already a line of other fish-less pond owners waiting in line at the truck. When my turn came, I told the fish man my name and he looked at me with a strange, twisted grin. “Ya know, when ya order such a large amount a fish, we deliver em to your pond for free.” Um, it would have been nice had someone mentioned this to me earlier in the ordering process.

Anyway, they began the long process of counting and bagging up my twelve hundred fish. They would grab a large, clear, plastic bag, pour my fish and their stinky water into the bottom third of the bag, stick an air hose in the bag, fill the other two-thirds of the bag with air, twist the top of the bag shut, wrap a rubber band around the top of the bag and then drop the wet, flippy, floppy bag of fish off the deck of the ginormous truck into the fish-less pond owners waiting arms. That means they dropped eighty wet, flippy, floppy bags of fish off the deck of the ginormous truck into my arms. Eighty times I screamed and ran to the Suburban where I threw the bag in and then jumped up and down whimpering while flapping my arms up and down like a wounded chicken trying to escape. Eighty times I listened to the truck full of fishy men bagging my twelve hundred fish laughing hysterically at my misery, not once offering to take care of the whole mess for me so I could go get a Starbucks and compose myself. Eighty. Times.

 

The beginning of the nightmare

After an eternity of this nightmare, the car was finally full and I was ready to go home. Home. Where I could escape this horrible ordeal. Only wait, how was I going to get home? Every square inch of the car was filled to overflowing with bags of disgusting fish. There was only one empty spot, the drivers seat and I was expected to sit in it and drive myself home. As I stood staring at the open drivers door of my car, feeling tears welling up in my eyes, from the smell, from terror, from the thought of never seeing my family again, the biggest of the fishy men yelled over to me. “Hey, ya know ya gotta get them fish in yer pond within an hour or they’re dead.” Someone might have mentioned this earlier in the ordering process, also.

 

These bags would end up piled floor to ceiling on every row

Not wanting to lose the hundreds of dollars I had wasted, I mean, invested in these fish, I got behind the wheel of the car, said a quick prayer as in, “JESUS HELP ME!!”, closed the car door, turned the key in the ignition and headed towards home. All the way home, those fish flipped and flopped and bags tightly squished together in the car found ways to move and make noise. It was a scene straight out of a Stephen King novel. I screamed and cried with each mile moving along in slow motion. People at stop lights were watching me white knuckling my steering wheel then suddenly screaming and jumping all around in my seat every time those fish would jump. I was so hoping someone would call the police and report me so I would be arrested and taken to jail where it was safe from fish.

 

Marlaaaaa....Marlaaaaaa.....We see you, Marlaaaaaaa!

Oh, they were thinking it. Don't think I didn't hear them.

Anyway, I did make it home. We did get the fish in the pond and we only lost two. I think I scared them to death.

Yes, that is sweat and stress you see all over my face and....

Yeah, your hair would look the same way if you drove 1200 fish around in your car.

This Sunday in My City, I am celebrating the Fourth by feeding my fish. How many firecrackers do you think twelve hundred fish can eat? I jest! I jest! Sort of....

The nightmare continues....