I am humbled if you have come back to my blog today to learn the results of the grow animals. It’s neat that you care about this as much as me. Somewhere, there’s a place for us.
Today, we are at 72 hours underwater, but first, I’ll catch you up on the last two days.
24 Hours – After twenty-four hours, the results weren’t totally impressive. The sting-ray looked sickly, the carrot looked gimpy, and the dinosaur just floated around. The dinosaur was our most active swimmer. He floated back and forth across the tub.
48 Hours – The sting-ray began to look cool, as though he was actually alive and swimming. The carrot remained unimpressive. The dinosaur lost his eyes.
72 Hours – Here they are in comparison with a quarter. The carrot doubled in size from yesterday. The sting-ray’s tail is long and weapon-like. He has some real weight to him. The dinosaur is not so much getting bigger as he is chubbier.
I have yet to set up a fourth experiment of a growing creature in distilled water. I think I’ll do that tomorrow. So yeah, come back tomorrow, too, and also see the tub animals at 96 hours. You know you want to. It’s officially Growing Crappy Toys in Water Week.
And now, for something else, briefly.
HELL YEAH, FUNDRAISER CHOCOLATE.
I don’t know if anyone out there has nostalgia/love for fundraiser candy bars, but I’ve been thinking about them for a few years now. We used to sell the World’s Finest bars in elementary school. This was the late 1980s, and going door-to-door was discouraged in the post-Adam Walsh world. So we mostly sold them to ourselves and grandparents.
We got our bars by the caseload, and each case contained fifty bars. For selling the most cases, kids could choose rewards from a prize brochure. The prizes were things like a punch ball if you sold 5 cases, to a foosball table table if you sold 15 cases. The school even dangled a BMX bicycle at us, too, if we impossibly sold something like 25 cases of candy. Some kids were particularly entrepreneurial and sold the candy bars at their little league games and church groups. But since I did absolutely nothing social, instead spending my days playing Nintendo or tying blades of grass together in the backyard, I could only rely on my mother to whore out my candy to her co-workers.
I set my goals low. I would have even taken that lousy punch ball. I wanted to go door to door, badly. I was willing to risk being kidnapped and tied up in a storage shed.
I’ve had a taste for these candy bars for YEARS. I’ve prayed to God at night that children would appear on my doorstep selling candy bars. About a year ago, my prayers came true. My roommate yelled up asking if I wanted to buy candy from the kids at the door. I fell over myself to get downstairs, only to find out they were selling Hershey bars. DID NOT WANT. At this point, they stood on my porch, their earnest faces looking up me nakedly, and I could see the lousy punch-balls in their eyes. I bought two Snickers.
The thing is, today all the fundraisers seem to hawk brand-name chocolate bars like Hersheys and Snickers. Some kids don’t even sell anything. They just walk around with buckets for you to throw spare change into, like street urchins. I thought the World’s Finest Bars were a thing of the past, until I found them for sale in the check-out line of the grocery store. I’m a terrible person and never donate a dollar to cancer or sick kids or drowning puppies, but of course, this was a different matter. I had found my long-coveted fundraiser chocolate.
I was charmed to discover the bars still come with coupon for Pizza Hut on the back. The candy was as great as I remembered, a more milky chocolate than Hershey’s with a more satisfying snap when you break the pieces.
You know, schools think fundraising programs teach kids valuable life lessons on money and business. I learned this–some kids are just born to succeed, working their church and scout and clubs networks. They were lauded with bikes and praise. Some years later, I learned they went to some Ivy-league school and studied finance.
Me? I was born to try and convince my grandmother to buy 250 chocolate bars. I got her up to 5. She let me have 4, and winked, whispering for me not to tell my mother. I guess not succeeding could be alright, too.
I studied writing so that I could complain about all of this coherently. I’m humbled that you are here to read it. It’s neat. Somewhere, there’s a place for us.