I got a phone call in the middle of half time Saturday. I couldn't get the right buttons punched, so I had to let it go to voice mail. It was my sister, crying, and I couldn't get a word she said, and I kind of freaked. When I finally found a quiet place to call her back, she told me her fish Barbeque died. Now before you go all "Whew, just a fish," let me tell you, it's amazing how attached you can get to a fish. I had Harold for two years (both Harold and Barbeque were bettas), and I was devestated when he died. I never did get another fish. But Emily had Barbeque for three years, and he had a lot of personality. Leave it to Emily to get an insane fish. The thing would leap up and bite your fingers when you tried to feed it. I always said he would end up jumping out of his bowl and committing suicide. Fortunately, that wasn't the case. So we're going to have a fish funeral in my backyard here sometime soon since Emily doesn't have one (he's awaiting burial in the freezer).

A moment of silence for Barbeque.



And...we're done.