What’s this thing you call a facebook status?

10/14/2009

Filed under: parents — Tags: , , , , — Angela @ 11:49 am Last modified: November 12, 2010 

Dad calls me out of the blue and says, “I’m on your facebook and I tried clicking on this thing that says ‘I am shattered..winter had been more beautiful than any summer…’ and it doesn’t show any more!” I burst out laughing, “That’s my status,” I say.

“And this thing about being attacked by a giant squirrel? Where is the rest of that!” he demands.

“That was my status too. It’s not a story.” I inform him.

By this time I’m roaring with laughter and dad is completely bewildered, “so a status is what you were thinking at the time?” he asks. “Yeah!” I exclaim. “Well it doesn’t make any sense!” he protests. “It doesn’t have to. It can be anything,” I explain, “Are you on mom’s facebook?” I ask, knowing he is, as he doesn’t have one of his own. “Yeah and I told her you wrote another story about her,” he pauses, sucking in his breath, “She’s not too happy about that.” I have no idea why he’s stalking me on facebook, but I briefly consider adding viewing limitations to my mother’s account.

Learning what a status is...

Learning what a status is...

The Big, Bad, Beta

Filed under: random adventures — Tags: , , , , — Angela @ 11:46 am Last modified: November 30, 2009 

We drive around all night and decide we need to find a Wal-mart because he has a gift card. Around two am, we find one and start out in search of two betas we can fight to the death. Finally, I find four pathetic fish and after selecting the most lively of the bunch (which is missing part of its fin and floating near the bottom of the bowl) I find an employee and ask her what kind of equipment I need.

“What do I need to bring this beta back to optimum health?” I ask, “we’re going to fight it.” She looks at me with a horrified expression and says, “I’m walking away now.” At this point, realizing his options for a solid fighting fish are slim, ––– decides to purchase his at an actually pet store, in hopes of giving it a chance against mine.

Over the next couple days, I try my best to take care of the beta, but despite my efforts, it tries to commit suicide. I scoop him out of his small bowl with a slotted kitchen spoon (having no net) and clean his water. I even add a few rocks for decoration. Despite my attempts to spruce up his environment, he continues his strike from eating. When I sprinkle a bit of food on the surface, he ignores me and stays glued to the wall of his bowl, even when I tap incessantly on the glass.

Realizing my chances of nursing the thing back to life in the tiny bowl are slim, I decide I must find him a new home. I purchase a new, much larger tank. I also get water conditioner and medicine hoping his skin will become more vibrant. The woman at Petco informs me that Betas don’t actually like small spaces, shattering all the things I previously believed to be true. At first, he doesn’t know what to think, but after a brief period of adjustment he begins swimming laps around the tank, doing cartwheels and backflips, and swimming up and down. He appears thrilled to have so much room to move.

I enjoy watching him for awhile. I call my mom to tell her about his new tank and new behavior. “Oh Angela…He was depressed! He’s so happy now,” my mom exclaims. It is so like my mother to personify the fish, but it’s probably true. Needless to say, he has never experienced so much space and takes full advantage of it. I also purchase some live blood worms, instantly deciding I’ve spent way too much money and effort on the miserable little fish. After he refuses the pebbles I offer him, I drop a few worms in his tank. The water turns a lovely shade of crimson and I watch as my beta races to the surface to snatch the worm. I decide I’ve raised a carnivorous monster partial to live bait.

After awhile, I begin to think the fish is entertaining me more than it should. When the beta starts eating I am thrilled and tell everyone that my fish is gobbling up “four pellets a feeding!” When he gets his new tank and begins swimming happily around the bowl I declare, “My fish started swimming!” Soon his color will return to normal and I’ll declare, “My fish is beautiful!” My fish has become my baby of sorts, giving me such amusement when he has each of his “firsts.”

I quickly lose interest in the beta realizing it is the most worthless form of entertainment ever and has a shitty return on investment. I silently wish for its demise, but continue to take wonderful care of it. I question my humanity. A few months later the beta is still going strong and I have planned a weekend excursion up north. I have no intention of bringing it along and come up with a wonderful plan to leave my clueless roommate from Korea in charge of it.

I promptly knock on her door and ask her if she will look after the thing for a few days. She nods in the clueless manner she normally does while I demonstrate how to dump a few pellets in the tank. She appears to have grasped the concept, so I leave for the weekend.

Upon return, I hope she has accidentally sped up the beta’s aging process. My hopes are instantly squandered as I enter the apartment and spot the beta hunkered in the corner of the it’s murky tank.

A week later my other roommate calls and regretfully informs me the beta has passed away. I smile and thank her. It’s the biggest reprieve I’ve experienced in months.

**No fish were hurt in this process.

My Parents: The Epitome

Filed under: parents — Tags: , , , , , , , — Angela @ 11:40 am Last modified: October 20, 2009 

When I first move to the cities, mom and dad drive me around in search of food. “I’d like to work at a place like Perkins,” I say, “They aren’t fancy and don’t serve alcohol.” As if by magic, mom instantly spots a Perkins and motions for dad to pull the van into the parking lot.

As we draw closer I realize it’s not even open yet. The lot is full of construction vans. “Oh, they’re closed. Let’ go!” I say, “I’m not going in there when they aren’t even open yet.”

Mom whips around to face me, “Oh yes you are Angela! This is the perfect time to sell yourself. Go in there and ask them when they are opening. Tell them you just moved down, you’d love to work for them and you have lots of experience.”

“I refuse to go up there, there’s not going to be anyone there besides the construction people,” I reason.

By this point dad decides he has to help me along and is out of the van pulling on the door and reaching for my hand. “Here, I’ll hold your hand and walk you to the door,” he says sarcastically. I glance up towards the restaurant where all the middle-aged workers are shooting us odd glances, “Get back in the car, you’re embarrassing!” I yell at dad. He finally concedes and I’m left with no choice but to march up to the front and attempt to apply.

I peer inside the windows and pull on the doors, which of course are locked, furthering my mortification. As I return to the van, mom and dad are beaming in the front seat. “Well it doesn’t hurt to try!” mom says straightening herself proudly in the front seat as dad tries to find his way out of the lot.

Mom and dad have no clue where we are going and drive aimlessly around the cities in search of Target. They are peering curiously at the giant, colored map of the twin cities before they suddenly realize they’ve been headed in the wrong direction for at least fifteen minutes. Dad’s patience is dwindling as mom tries to multitask, eating and giving him directions simultaneously. Her hands are piled with green grapes. “Did you wash those ?” I ask her.
“No, just wipe them on your shirt,” she says handing me a couple.

She’s popping them frantically into her mouth as she begins bobbing her head to the music. “Give me that,” dad says reaching for the map. “I think I’m going to like this song,” mom says putting on her sunglasses and stuffing a few more grapes into her mouth causing her to resemble a starved chipmunk. “It’s Get Money, Fuck Bitches,” I say laughing. She gasps in horror and changes the song.

Finally, we find a Target where I find myself constantly wandering astray. Mom yells at me for abandoning the cart, “Watch your cart! I’m not going back to refill it if someone takes it,” she warns. “Why would anyone take it?” I snap. Somehow we’ve managed to misplace dad and when we spot him strolling farther down the aisle mom begins whistling in attempted discretion, without success.

Dad notices and returns the catcall with one of his own. I am absolutely horrified. They resemble a couple of ducks during mating season- a fact that hasn’t managed to escape the amused stares of fellow customers.

The confused rents

My Mom: Website Tester Extroardinaire

Filed under: parents — Tags: , , , — Angela @ 11:31 am Last modified: October 14, 2009 

So I’m trying to have my mom tell me about the browser errors of my website over the phone. She is the perfect tester as she is completely clueless about technology and hasn’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about.

“Does the top of the black link box match up with the top of the black border that runs across the screen?” I ask her.

“What do you mean?” she asks cluelessly. I repeat the question. She pauses and then says, “I don’t understand what you’re asking me. Maybe rephrase the question,” she suggests.

I try rephrasing several times before finally giving up. I direct her to the Contact page where I suggest she take a moment and fill out the form. “Don’t type in a real email,” I tell her, “just type in some random letters and press submit.”

“Okay ya, that’s what I was going to do.” I can see her nodding as though it were perfectly obvious. “It says, ‘Please enter a valid email!’” she exclaims.

I start laughing. “Did you get the email?” she asks me.

“No, did you send it?”

“Well I thought it said, ‘Money is required.’ ” she says. I start laughing hysterically. She joins in, instantly realizing it said nothing of the sort.

“Well I don’t know,” she begins hesitantly, “It says here ‘Email:’ …Am I supposed to enter your email? How would I know your email?”

I swear she really isn’t always this clueless. It only proves to me you can’t assume anything. I change it to say ‘Your Email:’ “Try it now,” I say.

“Well that’s better!” she exclaims happily. Success.

Welcome to Them + Me

Filed under: Info — Angela @ 11:24 am Last modified: October 20, 2009 

This site is a collection of short stories, observations, and tidbits.  It will focus on my parents and daily interactions who provide me much comic relief on a daily basis.  Enjoy.

« Newer Stories