In December, I bought Esteban two new sweaters to wear for the holidays; one cashmere and one a rough raggy kind of oatmeal sweater (because I secretly find the LL Bean look very hot). Then Esteban reminded me that he does not like sweaters and also that he was afraid to wear cashmere because he sweats too much and while it’s all well and good that I handwash my own cashmere, he would feel so guilty about making me Ma Ingalls his sweater that he’d never ever wear it. He told me this in one breath and then looked at me with a worried expression, and I shrugged and said I’d take them back. He then let out a very long breath and confided that he had been very worried that I’d be upset with him for not loving sweaters. Because that is the true root of this nation’s high divorce rate. And while I do certainly appreciate a man in a lovely cashmere sweater (and hold me back if he’s wearing argyle because grrrrrowl), I would probably balk if he started buying me red plaid flannel shirts and really, the idea of him saturating a beautiful charcoal cashmere with his man grease that I would then need to beat against a rock to clean is enough to give one pause.
So without much ado, I returned the sweaters, along with some other things I had purchased myself but ended up not liking. I also purchased some new things, which cost roughly the same amount as my returned items, so was feeling pretty good about still being in the plus column for return credit. However, then I passed one of those expensive gift type stores with the massaging chairs and the air cleaners. Truthfully, they are sort of gimmicky (Tim Gunn, you complete me) but I wasn’t in a hurry to rush back into the cold. It had started to snow and I had parked in Outer Mongolia because the mall was post-Christmas Crazy. But I did. And like a kid to candy (hell, like ME to candy) I was yet again drawn to the little ecosystems.
Here’s the thing: back when we were terminally broke (oh shit, here she goes again) I satisfied my shopping angst by looking at catalogs. Sure, there were pages upon pages of things I couldn’t afford (and still can’t, in many cases) but it was fun to dream. And one of the things that I used to covet was the little glass ecosystems. But at about $70 for the smallest, it’s not exactly something you can decide ‘Oh what the hell’, especially when you’re digging under the floor mats of your car to find enough change to do the laundry. And then, gazing down upon the little worlds, I realized that I have wanted one for my very own for at least ten years. Ten years of wanting something that cost less than the cashmere sweater I had just returned. Ridiculous. I picked one that had the prettiest shrimp, marched up to the counter and handed over a credit card. Because damn it, I have to start toppling over these impossible ladders in my head.
My little sphere is pretty. My shrimps are cute. The biggest reddest one I’ve named Egon. The next biggest, lighter one is Venckman. The other two are Ray and Winston, but they are tiny and really, just supporting players. Yes, they are all boy shrimp. Maybe not really, but in my head they are four little geek boys whose bad luck got them stuck in a finite world with the closest female being entirely the wrong phylum and having a skeleton tucked neatly inside her body.
I wasn’t going to name them because you know, they’re shrimp, but then I accidentally hit the globe with a mouse cord, sending the ball rolling off its pedestal, and I watched as one clung to the twig, one hunkered down in the gravel and the other two shot around the sphere with surprising speed for such little guys. And that’s when I realized that no matter what, they had little briny personalities and hopes and probably had nightmares about garlic butter.
They are surprisingly fast, those shrimp. Sure, it’s all sprinting, but still. Sometimes they sleep. I worry about them getting too cold in the office, since apparently all of this worry about obtaining a custom-made wooden heating vent was pointless since I don’t think any actual heat is coming out of it. I worry that they get too much light. Or not enough. I also suspect that Winston has low self confidence because he is the smallest. Or has attachment issues. Or maybe is making inappropriate overtures toward the twig.
It’s probably a good thing (for the shrimp) that I can’t get in there. Otherwise I’d have them working on team building exercises and trust falls. They’d start making demands, asking for a little Sponge Bob figurine to keep them company. Then a very small pitcher of mojitos and some circuit party music. There would be a little crustacean rave on my desk top before you know it and then suddenly there’s no more water in the sphere because they drank it all.
Or so one would suspect.
For something that is designed to live on its own, it requires a lot of active passivity from the owner. There is a very complicated manual that came with the sphere, but it’s not as interesting as the website, which includes my favorite ‘The World Is About To End’ prediction. I think it’s the word ‘perish’ that makes it stand out. This is also where I learned that if the population of my little universe should unexpectedly drop, the others will efficiently dispose of the body. I’m a little nervous now, fearing a day when I walk in there and count three shrimp and ask them ‘My god, where’s little Ray? Where is he?’ and the others just look around with guilty expressions and telltale poop veins as dark as molasses.
The shrimps, they are a tad bit camera shy, and in fact, the curve of the sphere makes it very difficult to photograph, but let us try another angle, shall we?
Ah yes, the full family portrait.
Just a reminder, if you’re even remotely thinking about coming to party at the Bad Bar with us in February, it’s only five weeks from Friday! Now’s the time to grab those cheap airfares, if you haven’t already. I can’t wait to see you because man, it’s the only thing that’s getting me through January with my sanity intact. Or rather, as sane as possible for a woman who just launched into a thousand words about the lives of what are essentially snobby sea monkeys.
