Of Just Family?

Well. Do I have news.
We have sold the fish tank.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Oh, you need me to speak up? I said, WE SOLD THE FISH TANK! WESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANK!

I really have to hold myself back from putting in a thousand exclamation points right now, but I'm trying my hardest since I abhor! excessive! exclamation! points! in other peoples' writing.

Just let me say it one more time, for my own ears:
WESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANKWESOLDTHEFISHTANK!

Thanks. I'll stop bugging you now and explain.
At the last minute, on our third try, just when we were beginning to give up hope, we got an Ebay bidder. Not my Russian, no. Someone new, someone who paid with Paypal ON THE SPOT, someone with an American name, someone not apparently shady at all. This is wonderful news. Our fish will, hopefully, have a happy new home, and it WON'T BE HERE. I'm going to rearrange the furniture like crazy.

Now, here's the sad part: Y is totally depressed about the sale. Not because we got a little less than we wanted to make off the tank - because he is sorry to see it go. After all of his strong, responsible decision-making, he is having a bit of cognitive dissonance.

Last night, we went to a school banquet at the Kodak Theater. We were really excited because a) it was at the Kodak Theater, and come on, how cool is that, and b)Wolfgang Puck was catering, and this was probably going to be our only chance to eat his food. I was, I'll admit, also hoping that old Wolfy might make a teeny tiny surprise guest appearance there, in which case I would completely freak out and fall at his feet in worship, but he didn't show. Obviously. Whatever. His people will be hearing from my people, is all I'm saying.

On my way to meeting Y at his office to go to the dinner, he calls my cell, and says, in the SADDEST voice I have ever heard, "By the way, we sold the fish tank." I was like, "Ohmygosh, hooray! That's the best news ever!" and he is all, "I am so depressed." So I say, why? We weren't going to make more than that anyway, think of all the money we're going to save monthly on electricity! I might even be able to use my blowdryer from time to time without blowing a fuse!

And he says, in all seriousness: "You can't put a price on friends."

Maybe a more sympathetic wife would have understood. I, on the other hand, said, "You sure as hell can. And those were some PRET-ty pricey friends. We'll get you drunk tonight and you'll forget all about it."

The dinner was fun, and it was set up on the stage, which was strange, but cool. After a couple (alright, maybe a few) glasses of wine - our kids were sleeping at Y's parents' for the night, cut me some slack - it was ALL I COULD DO not to grab the microphone and plop down on the floor to treat the attendees to a McPhee-esque rendition of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." Y's best friend offered me lots of money to do it, but I guess I'm not as young and ballsy as I used to be (hey, A!).

And then there was a comedian. This is where I begin to get serious, and I'll jump right to the moral of the story, which is "Grief Over Sold Reef Aquariums, Heavy, Delicious Food, and Alcohol Consumption Should Not Mix."

Rewind. The comedian was pretty good, and, slightly drunk, I was laughing my head off. Y, on the other hand, stopped laughing midway through the guy's performance, and started muttering, "I've heard this stuff somewhere before," over and over again. As the guy finished, and everyone applauded, Y goes "Ray Romano! Ray Romano does this EXACT routine! I have it on my iPod! This guy is a fraud!" And I'm going, I'm sure it's not exactly the same, relax. And Y relaxes, but apparently doesn't forget.

Then he does something I have never seen him do before. When the comedian passes by our table, Y pulls him aside, compliments him on the performance, and says: "Have you ever worked with Ray Romano? Because I thought I sensed some similarities in your, ahem, styles."

All at once, things got extremely awkward. The guy mumbled something about having indeed worked with Ray before, looked at his shoes, and excused himself. I couldn't believe Y had called him on it.

Later, in the car, I said as much. Y was like, "Really? You think it was rude?" and I'm like, "Oh my G-d, yes, and it was so unlike you!"

Because I'm usually the one to make the social faux pas - in fact Y always claimed I'd unintentionally make at lease one per social outing, like inadvertantly insulting our host's mother, or something, at the table. I'm not going to say he's completely wrong about that. But last night was Y's night, and it's remarkably unsatifying.

I'm sad that he's sad. He's put a lot of work into that tank, and in a way, it's one of his babies. He fed, nurtured, and symbolically changed the sheets in the middle of the night for those coral and anemones with an attentiveness normally reserved strictly for his family. I'm proud that he has achieved such a healthy aquatic environment, and that he did it entirely on his own, on his first attempt. And I know it's hard to want to put your accomplishments in a drawer, or in this case, in Phoenix, Arizona, instead of keeping them on display as a reminder that you're damn good at something, just because it's a bit expensive and space-consuming to do so.

But I won't lie. I am SO not sorry to see this thing go. And hopefully the loss won't do permanent damage to Y's personality, and last night was just a fluke, because I swear to G-d if he embarrasses himself - or someone else - like that one more time, I will grab that mike and sing my American Idol heart out just to take the focus, and some of the sting, off of him.