All this time, you thought Val was just a bump on a log out here in Backroads. And not a very attractive one, either, judging from the photo on her recent driver's license. A bump on a log that used to be a world-class ugly tree. Or maybe you pictured her as a little fish in a little pond. Swimming round and round, never going anywhere, bemoaning the fact that all the other fishies were just...so...fishy.
I'm here to set the record straight. Val has connections. We're not talking about the guy at Voice of the Village convenience store who gives her a free 44 oz. Diet Coke every now and then. Nor about the students who call her name as she walks through the school cafeteria, fancying herself some teetotaling Norm in a nonalcoholic neighborhood bar. Nope.
Val knows somebody who's going to be on television! Not a local cable-access channel, on a Community Happenings show run by middle school students. Nor a hapless citizen with a mullet and no home, having a microphone shoved into his face after his trailer whirled away in a tornado. Nope.
Good Morning America, baby! Thursday. That's tomorrow as I write this. My old blog buddy, who knew me under my old alias, back when I was still wet under the waistboobs, IS GOING TO BE ON GOOD MORNING AMERICA! All because of her blog. She coined that term, you know. Waistboobs. The stretchy breasts of old ladies. We won't go into why she had a need to create that word. All I can say is: better her than me.
Back in the day, we were thick as thieves. Well. We were thick. Okay. I was thick. And maybe I still am. Is that so wrong? She's from Mississippi. Every time I read an article about the fattest state or the state with the highest teen birth rate, I sent her a link. I know she truly appreciated my consideration. I know, because she would reply with news of some guy shooting his wife through the wall of the house while trying to start nail holes to mount a big-screen TV. Can't remember if it was a nail gun or a regular gun. That's one detail we don't really dwell on in these parts. Before, or after. Oh, and she always inquired as to whether we here in Missouri still held our title of Meth Capitol of the United States. And most often, I could reply that we did.
Here she is, letting it all hang out, at Mommy Needs a Xanax. Catchy title, huh? So wrong, yet so right. Maybe you could drop in and leave her a little comment. Don't cost nothin'. She's been busy lately, what with raising two boys and all. Her impending famewhoredom came as a complete surprise.
Apparently, national TV exposure is what happens when you're raising kids. Sheryl Crow might need to update that song of hers.
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Check This Out!
This is not my usual daily tale of how the world conspires against me. It's an EXTRA! Details will follow this evening.
Check out Good Morning America on THURSDAY. One of my old blog buddies is supposed to make an appearance. The camera crew made a house call and put her in the can. I have already set my DVR. Let's hope she isn't bumped for some world-shaking event.
Check out Good Morning America on THURSDAY. One of my old blog buddies is supposed to make an appearance. The camera crew made a house call and put her in the can. I have already set my DVR. Let's hope she isn't bumped for some world-shaking event.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
It's Complicated
Hey! I'm still kickin'!
Last night I was miserable, despite dosing myself with the dregs of cough medicine from 2009. Its effectiveness wore off, and the night wore on. I called my mom to check in, which I do twice a day, whether she wants to talk to me or not. Makes me no nevermind if she is snugly ensconced in her recliner watching Mizzou basketball.
Mom was upset at my hoarseness. And possibly with my whining. I had no witty tales of Hick's shenanigans. In fact, I was feeling so low, down-in-the-dumps, under-the-weather, sub-par, down-for-the-count that a tiny sob escaped my throat.
Oh, dear. That was not the right thing to do. It was not a conscious decision. It just slipped out. Like, "Oh, f***!" from between the lips of a fireman at Art Hill, trying to pull a 200-lb. woman wearing a down coat out of the lake after a sledding incident. Mom began emitting tiny sobs. My own gained frequency. I told her I was going to hang up and get some rest. She said she would talk to me in the morning.
This morning, my expired cough medicine was a distant dream. My head hurt, my chest hurt, my cough was back, and I misery index was rising like heat waves over a new section of blacktop fresh out of the paver on a July highway. I called Mom to check in. "Oh, honey. I have been thinking about you all night. Is there anything I can do for you today?" Of course that made me sob. Which made Mom sob. Which made me sob harder. That conversation did not last long.
This morning I was ready. The minute my plan time rolled around, I called my doctor's office to request some proper cough medicine. That was the only time my cough was non-existent. If only I could bottle a doctor's office phone call, I could help more people go coughless than Hall's, codeine, and Robitussin.
The minute school was out, Mom called. "Are you all right? Can I pick up anything and bring it to you? Did you call the doctor?" I explained that I would be picking up medicine on the way home, and that even though he was presently unaware, Hick would be bringing home hot & sour soup to open up my head. I did not sob. I was better than yesterday at that time.
WAS. Until The Pony and I left school on the drive to the pharmacy. I hacked more than Anonymous. It felt like the top of my head was going to shoot off like the lid from an empty plastic water bottle when a freshman boy squeezes it until it explodes. My eyes bugged out like the eyes on one of those rubber eye-popper stress dolls. I needed a Depends more than a spurned astronaut traveling cross-country to confront her ex-lover's girlfriend.
The pharmacy parking lot was fuller than Takeru Kobayashi after Nathan's Famous July 4 International Hot Dog Eating Contest. As I fumbled for my debit card, the whole world passed in front of my Tahoe and entered the building. People were lined up to the door. Apparently, it was a good day for making one's mother sob. My prescription had been called in, but it was not ready. The technicians were forty minutes behind. They were not about to fill something for somebody not even filling up their store. Of course my car cough abated when I walked into the pharmacy. If only I could bottle a long wait in line for cough medicine at a pharmacy, I could compete with my other product on the market, the Doctor's Office Call Elixir. (I'm also flirting with the idea of a clothing line called Togs For the Emperor).
I sat down on the black faux leather couch made of chairs to wait. After about 15 minutes, my cough returned. Val had got her WHOOP back. It was all I could do not to mark that fine piece of furniture like Poppie marked Jerry's new white couch. Let's just say I did not look down when I got up. I'm hoping the little old lady that sat on my right hip was without her glasses. I took off for the counter when my name was called. My doctor had hooked me up with some Cheratussin. It doesn't hold a candle to Histinex, but it's better than four-year-old Iophen.
Mom was happy to hear from me when I got home. She said I sounded better already, even though I had not yet taken a dose. Nobody sobbed. I'm looking forward to feeling better.
Mom needs her rest.
Last night I was miserable, despite dosing myself with the dregs of cough medicine from 2009. Its effectiveness wore off, and the night wore on. I called my mom to check in, which I do twice a day, whether she wants to talk to me or not. Makes me no nevermind if she is snugly ensconced in her recliner watching Mizzou basketball.
Mom was upset at my hoarseness. And possibly with my whining. I had no witty tales of Hick's shenanigans. In fact, I was feeling so low, down-in-the-dumps, under-the-weather, sub-par, down-for-the-count that a tiny sob escaped my throat.
Oh, dear. That was not the right thing to do. It was not a conscious decision. It just slipped out. Like, "Oh, f***!" from between the lips of a fireman at Art Hill, trying to pull a 200-lb. woman wearing a down coat out of the lake after a sledding incident. Mom began emitting tiny sobs. My own gained frequency. I told her I was going to hang up and get some rest. She said she would talk to me in the morning.
This morning, my expired cough medicine was a distant dream. My head hurt, my chest hurt, my cough was back, and I misery index was rising like heat waves over a new section of blacktop fresh out of the paver on a July highway. I called Mom to check in. "Oh, honey. I have been thinking about you all night. Is there anything I can do for you today?" Of course that made me sob. Which made Mom sob. Which made me sob harder. That conversation did not last long.
This morning I was ready. The minute my plan time rolled around, I called my doctor's office to request some proper cough medicine. That was the only time my cough was non-existent. If only I could bottle a doctor's office phone call, I could help more people go coughless than Hall's, codeine, and Robitussin.
The minute school was out, Mom called. "Are you all right? Can I pick up anything and bring it to you? Did you call the doctor?" I explained that I would be picking up medicine on the way home, and that even though he was presently unaware, Hick would be bringing home hot & sour soup to open up my head. I did not sob. I was better than yesterday at that time.
WAS. Until The Pony and I left school on the drive to the pharmacy. I hacked more than Anonymous. It felt like the top of my head was going to shoot off like the lid from an empty plastic water bottle when a freshman boy squeezes it until it explodes. My eyes bugged out like the eyes on one of those rubber eye-popper stress dolls. I needed a Depends more than a spurned astronaut traveling cross-country to confront her ex-lover's girlfriend.
The pharmacy parking lot was fuller than Takeru Kobayashi after Nathan's Famous July 4 International Hot Dog Eating Contest. As I fumbled for my debit card, the whole world passed in front of my Tahoe and entered the building. People were lined up to the door. Apparently, it was a good day for making one's mother sob. My prescription had been called in, but it was not ready. The technicians were forty minutes behind. They were not about to fill something for somebody not even filling up their store. Of course my car cough abated when I walked into the pharmacy. If only I could bottle a long wait in line for cough medicine at a pharmacy, I could compete with my other product on the market, the Doctor's Office Call Elixir. (I'm also flirting with the idea of a clothing line called Togs For the Emperor).
I sat down on the black faux leather couch made of chairs to wait. After about 15 minutes, my cough returned. Val had got her WHOOP back. It was all I could do not to mark that fine piece of furniture like Poppie marked Jerry's new white couch. Let's just say I did not look down when I got up. I'm hoping the little old lady that sat on my right hip was without her glasses. I took off for the counter when my name was called. My doctor had hooked me up with some Cheratussin. It doesn't hold a candle to Histinex, but it's better than four-year-old Iophen.
Mom was happy to hear from me when I got home. She said I sounded better already, even though I had not yet taken a dose. Nobody sobbed. I'm looking forward to feeling better.
Mom needs her rest.
Monday, March 4, 2013
It Was a Very Good Year
An expiration date ain't nothin' but a number.
Hey! What did you expect? So sorry, but A Hero Ain't Nothin' But a Sandwich was already taken. TAKEN! Like movie theater seats at the Paradise Twin showing of Checkmate, trying to be saved by Elaine Benes. In the same manner that Lil named her bar Coyote Ugly because Cheers was taken.
You might think, with an intro such as this, that I will be expounding upon my mother's penchant for expired foodstuffs. But no. Like Rooster Cogburn, aiming to kill Lucky Ned Pepper in one minute, telling Farrell Parmalee and his brother Harold to stand clear...I've got no interest in her today.
No, what we're talking about here is a failure to expectorate. I have a cough from my weekend cold, and I can't retch up that annoying liquid that tickles the back of my throat and squeezes and wheezes through my lungs.
As Even Steven would have it, my plan time today was filled with grading a tall stack of work placed in my mailbox last Thursday afternoon, which I had expected to grade Friday morning. Before we had a snow day. Before this cold was even a twinkle in the eye of that close-talker who sprayed sputum in my mouth, apparently, with a surprise cough just before final bell.
My lunch time was filled with duty. My after school time was filled with a lengthy First Monday faculty meeting. So I have hacked my way nearly into submission. Fruitlessly. Halls cough drops have not helped. Tomorrow I intend to call my doctor to see if he can call my pharmacy to see if they can whip up an elixir to halt my hacking. I am not optimistic. If I try to make an appointment, I will have suffered needlessly and no longer need relief by the time my scheduled audience with the doc arrives. Don't even get me started on that Inconvenient Care place.
Tonight I was left to my own devices. I am loathe to breeze into Walmart and grab a boxed bottle off the shelf, because cough medicine ingredients clash with high blood pressure like a polka dot shirt with madras shorts. In the nooks and crannies of my kitchen cabinets, I discovered an old bottle of my prescription cough medicine from 2009. That's right. 2009. There was not so much cough medicine in it anymore as there was a tiny blob of gooey stuff that looked like the center of a Fruit Gushers candy piece. I added a bit of water and swirled it. Let it sit on the counter five minutes. Poured out a teaspoon in the plastic shot glass measuring cup.
EUREKA! It worked for about two hours. Mostly. Enough for a brief respite from cracking my ribs with an explosive cough every thirty seconds.
It's going to be a long night.
Hey! What did you expect? So sorry, but A Hero Ain't Nothin' But a Sandwich was already taken. TAKEN! Like movie theater seats at the Paradise Twin showing of Checkmate, trying to be saved by Elaine Benes. In the same manner that Lil named her bar Coyote Ugly because Cheers was taken.
You might think, with an intro such as this, that I will be expounding upon my mother's penchant for expired foodstuffs. But no. Like Rooster Cogburn, aiming to kill Lucky Ned Pepper in one minute, telling Farrell Parmalee and his brother Harold to stand clear...I've got no interest in her today.
No, what we're talking about here is a failure to expectorate. I have a cough from my weekend cold, and I can't retch up that annoying liquid that tickles the back of my throat and squeezes and wheezes through my lungs.
As Even Steven would have it, my plan time today was filled with grading a tall stack of work placed in my mailbox last Thursday afternoon, which I had expected to grade Friday morning. Before we had a snow day. Before this cold was even a twinkle in the eye of that close-talker who sprayed sputum in my mouth, apparently, with a surprise cough just before final bell.
My lunch time was filled with duty. My after school time was filled with a lengthy First Monday faculty meeting. So I have hacked my way nearly into submission. Fruitlessly. Halls cough drops have not helped. Tomorrow I intend to call my doctor to see if he can call my pharmacy to see if they can whip up an elixir to halt my hacking. I am not optimistic. If I try to make an appointment, I will have suffered needlessly and no longer need relief by the time my scheduled audience with the doc arrives. Don't even get me started on that Inconvenient Care place.
Tonight I was left to my own devices. I am loathe to breeze into Walmart and grab a boxed bottle off the shelf, because cough medicine ingredients clash with high blood pressure like a polka dot shirt with madras shorts. In the nooks and crannies of my kitchen cabinets, I discovered an old bottle of my prescription cough medicine from 2009. That's right. 2009. There was not so much cough medicine in it anymore as there was a tiny blob of gooey stuff that looked like the center of a Fruit Gushers candy piece. I added a bit of water and swirled it. Let it sit on the counter five minutes. Poured out a teaspoon in the plastic shot glass measuring cup.
EUREKA! It worked for about two hours. Mostly. Enough for a brief respite from cracking my ribs with an explosive cough every thirty seconds.
It's going to be a long night.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Yours, Mine, and...Oh, Who are We Kidding Here?
This is why Val can't have nice things. Oh, who are we kidding here? This is why Val can't have THINGS.
The kitchen is my domain. According to Hick, it's where I merely heat things in the microwave, or warm them in the oven. Still, that's more than he does. In fact, Hick does not even know where kitchen stuff goes. That's why he can't put anything away. He doesn't have a diagram like the lid of a Whitman Sampler.
If my kitchen was a convenience store, that cushy mat the cashiers stand on would be at the corner of Sink and Counter. That's where I do my food prep, the 'L' with the sink at my right hand, and the stove at my left. That's where the wooden paper plate holder sits, and the salt and pepper grinders. The glass plate cabinet is directly above. The silverware drawer just below. Because this is my control center, I feel safe in leaving my red Solo cup there within arm's reach. I use it every morning to take my medicine. I use it to stay hydrated while glowing over a hot stove. No need to throw it away every day. It's only used for water.
This morning, my red Solo cup was gone. I don't know about you, but to me, this smacked of an act of provocation. Thank goodness I do not yet have nuclear capabilities. You might as well stick your tongue out at me. Kick sand in my face. Flip me the bird from the passing lane. Show me the sole of your shoe. Not cool.
Not being an I'm okay/you're okay, everyone's a winner, unicorn-and-rainbow-loving flower child hippie, I set out to apprehend the culprit. Not so much bent on revenge as on assuring that this reckless disregard for my personal possessions did not rear its disrespectful head again. Especially after struggling so hard to put an end to the confiscation of my tube of hair conditioner that comes with L'Oreal, the clandestine use of my pink plastic disposable razor, and the unauthorized removal of bites of food right off my plate.
In my house, there are really only two suspects. The one who is the food snatcher, with his very own red Solo cup that sits on the cutting block, and the one who takes everything else. The interrogation of Hick was not suitable practice for my dream career of high-profile prosecuting attorney. More like catching a toddler with his hand in the cookie jar and melted chocolate chip residue around his mouth.
Did you take my red Solo cup?
Red Solo cup?
Yes.
What red Solo cup?
You know what I'm talking about.
I drank out of a red Solo cup last night.
Where did you get it?
What do you mean, 'Where did I get it?'
Did you take it off the counter?
I don't know.
Well, that cup I leave there to drink out of every morning is gone.
Huh.
You know you took it.
Okay, so I took a cup off the counter. There's always a stack there.
No. There's ONE cup. The one I drink out of. Get your own out of the pack in the pantry.
I don't know why you're making a big deal.
That was MY cup. You were just too lazy to walk three steps and get your own.
Believe me, I don't want to drink out of your cup, the way you hack and sputter.
That's funny. Because you took my cup. Even though I've had this cold since Friday.
I swear, I'm going to get my own stuff and keep it in the BARn.
You do that.
See, it's the principle of the matter. What if I took the plastic cup Hick keeps by the bathroom sink to take HIS medicine every morning? I'm sure he would notice something amiss.
Unless he was too busy shaving with my razor and revitalizing his meager tresses with my L'Oreal conditioner.
The kitchen is my domain. According to Hick, it's where I merely heat things in the microwave, or warm them in the oven. Still, that's more than he does. In fact, Hick does not even know where kitchen stuff goes. That's why he can't put anything away. He doesn't have a diagram like the lid of a Whitman Sampler.
If my kitchen was a convenience store, that cushy mat the cashiers stand on would be at the corner of Sink and Counter. That's where I do my food prep, the 'L' with the sink at my right hand, and the stove at my left. That's where the wooden paper plate holder sits, and the salt and pepper grinders. The glass plate cabinet is directly above. The silverware drawer just below. Because this is my control center, I feel safe in leaving my red Solo cup there within arm's reach. I use it every morning to take my medicine. I use it to stay hydrated while glowing over a hot stove. No need to throw it away every day. It's only used for water.
This morning, my red Solo cup was gone. I don't know about you, but to me, this smacked of an act of provocation. Thank goodness I do not yet have nuclear capabilities. You might as well stick your tongue out at me. Kick sand in my face. Flip me the bird from the passing lane. Show me the sole of your shoe. Not cool.
Not being an I'm okay/you're okay, everyone's a winner, unicorn-and-rainbow-loving flower child hippie, I set out to apprehend the culprit. Not so much bent on revenge as on assuring that this reckless disregard for my personal possessions did not rear its disrespectful head again. Especially after struggling so hard to put an end to the confiscation of my tube of hair conditioner that comes with L'Oreal, the clandestine use of my pink plastic disposable razor, and the unauthorized removal of bites of food right off my plate.
In my house, there are really only two suspects. The one who is the food snatcher, with his very own red Solo cup that sits on the cutting block, and the one who takes everything else. The interrogation of Hick was not suitable practice for my dream career of high-profile prosecuting attorney. More like catching a toddler with his hand in the cookie jar and melted chocolate chip residue around his mouth.
Did you take my red Solo cup?
Red Solo cup?
Yes.
What red Solo cup?
You know what I'm talking about.
I drank out of a red Solo cup last night.
Where did you get it?
What do you mean, 'Where did I get it?'
Did you take it off the counter?
I don't know.
Well, that cup I leave there to drink out of every morning is gone.
Huh.
You know you took it.
Okay, so I took a cup off the counter. There's always a stack there.
No. There's ONE cup. The one I drink out of. Get your own out of the pack in the pantry.
I don't know why you're making a big deal.
That was MY cup. You were just too lazy to walk three steps and get your own.
Believe me, I don't want to drink out of your cup, the way you hack and sputter.
That's funny. Because you took my cup. Even though I've had this cold since Friday.
I swear, I'm going to get my own stuff and keep it in the BARn.
You do that.
See, it's the principle of the matter. What if I took the plastic cup Hick keeps by the bathroom sink to take HIS medicine every morning? I'm sure he would notice something amiss.
Unless he was too busy shaving with my razor and revitalizing his meager tresses with my L'Oreal conditioner.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Do They Take Duos on Worst Cooks in America?
What a blustery cold day we had here!
I threw together a pot of vegetable beef soup to simmer for supper. Hick came in ten minutes after I added the last ingredient, and said, "That stew is ready now, right? So I can have some for lunch?" It might as well be stew. Hick does not like the "juice" in soup. That's why he builds a bowl like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I told him it was done enough. But that we were having it for supper, and also tomorrow. He ate it anyway.
What Hick does not seem to understand is that even though all the ingredients are in the pot, the final taste is still percolating. The flavors have to marry. There'll be no common-law soup in MY house! No shacking up. No living in sin. Nobody's getting the milk for free.
Genius came home from a sleepover as I was putting the soup together, and stepped right into a nightmare.
"Hey, open those cans of vegetables for me. The can opener makes my wrist hurt."
"You know how awkward this is for me, right? Why don't we have a left-handed can opener? Or one of those mechanical ones?"
"Why don't we have a dishwasher instead of my hands? If that's too hard for you, I can do it myself. You can go take your shirts out of the washer and hang them."
"No, this is fine. You can do the shirts."
"I'm busy cooking this hamburger right now. Hey! That part looks funny. I'm taking it out. It might be horse meat. Do you want to do it?"
"No. I'm fine."
"You didn't take out the trash last night like I told you, so you'll have to do it now. And you didn't fill the pepper and salt grinders like I told you last week."
"I can only do one thing at a time!"
"And not very well. How am I supposed to get these carrots out? You didn't open all the way around the lid. It won't come off."
"Give it back!"
"Things take so long when I have help."
"Where's the peppercorns? Oh, here they are. I guess you know that I have touched every single one of them with my fingers. My skin cells will be in the soup."
"Don't worry. They will blend with that tip of my thumb I cut off while dicing the onion. Grind some pepper into the soup."
"What? There. Is that enough?"
"Well, that's about the amount one person would use for a single bowl of soup, and not a whole pot. But don't worry about it. It's fine."
"Yay! I made soup!"
I find kitchen chores to be SO exhausting.
I threw together a pot of vegetable beef soup to simmer for supper. Hick came in ten minutes after I added the last ingredient, and said, "That stew is ready now, right? So I can have some for lunch?" It might as well be stew. Hick does not like the "juice" in soup. That's why he builds a bowl like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I told him it was done enough. But that we were having it for supper, and also tomorrow. He ate it anyway.
What Hick does not seem to understand is that even though all the ingredients are in the pot, the final taste is still percolating. The flavors have to marry. There'll be no common-law soup in MY house! No shacking up. No living in sin. Nobody's getting the milk for free.
Genius came home from a sleepover as I was putting the soup together, and stepped right into a nightmare.
"Hey, open those cans of vegetables for me. The can opener makes my wrist hurt."
"You know how awkward this is for me, right? Why don't we have a left-handed can opener? Or one of those mechanical ones?"
"Why don't we have a dishwasher instead of my hands? If that's too hard for you, I can do it myself. You can go take your shirts out of the washer and hang them."
"No, this is fine. You can do the shirts."
"I'm busy cooking this hamburger right now. Hey! That part looks funny. I'm taking it out. It might be horse meat. Do you want to do it?"
"No. I'm fine."
"You didn't take out the trash last night like I told you, so you'll have to do it now. And you didn't fill the pepper and salt grinders like I told you last week."
"I can only do one thing at a time!"
"And not very well. How am I supposed to get these carrots out? You didn't open all the way around the lid. It won't come off."
"Give it back!"
"Things take so long when I have help."
"Where's the peppercorns? Oh, here they are. I guess you know that I have touched every single one of them with my fingers. My skin cells will be in the soup."
"Don't worry. They will blend with that tip of my thumb I cut off while dicing the onion. Grind some pepper into the soup."
"What? There. Is that enough?"
"Well, that's about the amount one person would use for a single bowl of soup, and not a whole pot. But don't worry about it. It's fine."
"Yay! I made soup!"
I find kitchen chores to be SO exhausting.
Friday, March 1, 2013
Friday Night in Frankenstein's La-BOR-atory
Another Friday night devoted to spreading news in the world of science.
PETA is strangely silent on this one.
Tadpoles can see through eyes on their tails. Now don't go jumping to rash conclusions. No matter what you read in the headlines, these tadpoles are not mutants. Nor are they exhibiting evidence of a homozygous recessive genotype. They did not sprout eyes on their tails like Aunt Edna sprouts whiskers on her chin. These tail-eyes were put there by scientists. Yep. They are frankentadpole peepers.
Again, don't go all weepy over the article's talk of "donor" tadpoles who gave their eyes for this experiment. They were not offered releases to sign. Didn't mark a box on their driver's license with a really bad picture. Donor tadpoles are not selfless amphibians who set out to give sight to friends without, like, "I have two eyes, so I will give my fellow tadpole one. I can live with one. Get a cool eye patch and ARRGH all the live-long day. And people will think I'm selfless." Nope. Scientist removed their eyes.
Oh, perhaps you didn't read that closely. Perhaps you didn't read at all, but tried to rent the movie and ended up at a stranger's apartment elbowing their teenage daughter away from the end of the white couch where you could reach your nuts while sipping grape juice and hushing the family discussion. If that was the case, you might have missed the detail that scientists removed the eyes of normal tadpoles, and grafted eye tissue onto the tails of the test subjects.
But wait! There's more here than meets the eye! (Heh, heh! See what I did there? I said, "meets the EYE" in a story about EYES!) Scientists REMOVED the normal eyes of the tail-eye tadpoles! Took out perfectly good eyes, made their test subjects blind, and stuck eye tissue on their tails to see if they could see! And in some convoluted manner involving red light and blue light and, oh yes, electric shock...about nineteen percent of their test subject blinded tadpoles avoided that red light shocking area.
Don't go thinking that a bunch of frogs will be released with eyes on their butts. Tadpoles absorb their tails as food. So they will be eating those eyes like Andrew Zimmern, Anthony Bourdain, and Amazing Race contestants experimenting with global cuisine.
PETA? No tadpole love? I'm sure you would have something to say about soft fluffy kittens with eyes on their tails. Perhaps some animals are more equal than others.
PETA is strangely silent on this one.
Tadpoles can see through eyes on their tails. Now don't go jumping to rash conclusions. No matter what you read in the headlines, these tadpoles are not mutants. Nor are they exhibiting evidence of a homozygous recessive genotype. They did not sprout eyes on their tails like Aunt Edna sprouts whiskers on her chin. These tail-eyes were put there by scientists. Yep. They are frankentadpole peepers.
Again, don't go all weepy over the article's talk of "donor" tadpoles who gave their eyes for this experiment. They were not offered releases to sign. Didn't mark a box on their driver's license with a really bad picture. Donor tadpoles are not selfless amphibians who set out to give sight to friends without, like, "I have two eyes, so I will give my fellow tadpole one. I can live with one. Get a cool eye patch and ARRGH all the live-long day. And people will think I'm selfless." Nope. Scientist removed their eyes.
Oh, perhaps you didn't read that closely. Perhaps you didn't read at all, but tried to rent the movie and ended up at a stranger's apartment elbowing their teenage daughter away from the end of the white couch where you could reach your nuts while sipping grape juice and hushing the family discussion. If that was the case, you might have missed the detail that scientists removed the eyes of normal tadpoles, and grafted eye tissue onto the tails of the test subjects.
But wait! There's more here than meets the eye! (Heh, heh! See what I did there? I said, "meets the EYE" in a story about EYES!) Scientists REMOVED the normal eyes of the tail-eye tadpoles! Took out perfectly good eyes, made their test subjects blind, and stuck eye tissue on their tails to see if they could see! And in some convoluted manner involving red light and blue light and, oh yes, electric shock...about nineteen percent of their test subject blinded tadpoles avoided that red light shocking area.
Don't go thinking that a bunch of frogs will be released with eyes on their butts. Tadpoles absorb their tails as food. So they will be eating those eyes like Andrew Zimmern, Anthony Bourdain, and Amazing Race contestants experimenting with global cuisine.
PETA? No tadpole love? I'm sure you would have something to say about soft fluffy kittens with eyes on their tails. Perhaps some animals are more equal than others.
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