A Pattern

The zoo has never been my favorite place. But I never thought it would almost kill my mother. That is exactly what happened this past weekend. (The following has graphic content, kind of. So get excited.)

Freak accident? Or payback?

I may never know. I gave my almost ten-year-old daughter the choice of destinations for her pre-birthday weekend. She looked through them all, considered, and then picked the zoo. I have not told her that I dislike looking at captive animals. But she did see me leave the circus, distraught, unable to watch a bear being made to dance. In fact, she followed me and waited until the people acts came back on. Needless to say, that was my last trip to the *@&$*#* circus.

But I caved under pressure. Yes, I want to provide my children with that classic childhood where they get to go to zoos, carnivals, amusement parks, fairs, the circus. Unfortch, that childhood is not possible with me as their mom. The classic experience is tainted when I am cringing in the background.

But I keep telling my gut to shut up and we try it anyway.

Four times out of five we regret it. I mean that as an exact statistic.   

Activity                     Disaster

Fair                           Check

Circus                      Check

Zoo                          Check

Carnival                    Check

Amusement Park      So far, so good.

With odds like that, I don’t know why I leave the house. Kidding…kind of. So, we go to the Baltimore Zoo. Part of the birthday privilege is that she gets to pick the agenda. This means we meander quite a bit. Sure, we all suspect that she is not reading the map very closely, but none of us will say it. We go the long way to the Maryland indigenous species exhibit, through the marsh walk and the interactive playground; then we detour to see the empty, under-construction penguin area. 

After a more assisted look at the map, we head off to see some real animals, or so we think. 

Before we go to see the tigers, giraffes and warthogs, my daughter wants to pet a goat. Actually, she wants to feed a goat with a bottle like she saw in the picture online, but that wasn’t being offered. *Shwew* She settles for petting one. 

I’m not the pet-strange-animals type, but I am the try-not-to-be-a-party-pooper type (which explains the whole trip), so I stand outside the fence and let Mr. Gregorific and my mother take the girls in to pet the goats. I watch as my daughter finds the only goat who is lying down, motionless. She goes straight to it, like that is the exact one who needs her pets. She kneels and talks to it, while I decide that I’m pretty sure it’s dead. 

Then I see my other daughter roaming about, holding what looks to be a floor scrubbing brush. The certain gleam in her eye makes me search frantically for Mr. Gregorific, so I can signal him into high alert and he can intervene before an innocent goat gets an up-do.  

Turns out, not so innocent. 

“Medic! Medic!” My husband starts calling, proving just how many British cooking shows he watches. 

I scan the yard to see why he is yelling and that’s when I see my poor mother and a lot of blood. 

I don’t want to gross you out, but they did not clear the pen, they did not offer to help, and they did not stop letting more people in. We insisted they call first aid and we waited *ten* minutes. 

First aid was one man wearing a shirt with SECURITY printed on the back. He opened a duffel bag and took out a sani-wipe like you get at a BBQ joint, and a dusty ice pack. The ice pack did not get cold and when he tried to dab the sani-wipe on her injury, we called the whole thing off. I asked what his medical training was, and he then put the sani-wipe down and suggested we go to the ER. 

He kindly gave us a lift (in his little golf cart) to the parking lot. 

A couple stitches and a lot of trauma later, my mom is fine. She is a real trooper. She told me later what happened. 

She saw that the largest goat in the pen was not getting any attention. So, naturally, she went over to pet him. (See any pattern here?) The goat did not see her when she approached from behind and patted his back, at the same time as she leaned down to smell his head. It sounds ridiculous because it is, but it is true. She inadvertently startled the goat and it quickly turned towards her just as she bent in for a sniff. They head butted each other. The goat won.   

My mom is an eccentric. (See the pattern here?) But she is also an almost-saint. She did not have to admit that she was trying to smell its head. She did not have to be so gracious with the unprepared Zoo staff, or insist that we continue the birthday weekend rather than race home and call it a disaster. She did not blame the goat, who is fine, in case you were wondering. She did not scapegoat anyone, and she did not even once exploit the perfect opportunity to make jokes about escapegoating--a temptation I cannot resist. There's your proof, people. An eccentric almost-saint. 

We salvaged the weekend, and had fun despite the vicious zoo visit. Let me tell you though, I will not be back. And I have a good feeling that my kids won’t either. 

All it took was a near death experience. 

Don’t smell a goat, 
~gregorific

Rigsby

Can I tell you how special my dog is?

Rigsby sits next to me every time I write. Every. Time. He is right here, now. He likes to sit close. Real close. He likes to edge closer while I type. Closer, closer, until his snout rests on the enter key. I nudge him off. He starts again.

It’s a riot, people. He makes sure that he has the maximum amount of flank sidled against me at all times. And my thigh agrees. It is not happy unless a stretch of curly, black cockapoo fur is close beside it. It doesn’t matter where I am: the couch, my bed, or my desk. If I switch seats, then he switches seats. I call him my co-worker and frequently tease him about being late to work.  

His least favorite work site is my desk. On the rare occasion, I sit at my desk and act all professional. Like I can get anything done without a furry mass pressing against me. As if.

Something is wrong with the world if Gregorific chooses good posture and organization over snuggle and wet nose! 

When this happens, Rigsby rests his chin on the plastic legs of the rolling chair. Next, he scoots over to my feet and covers them with his warm belly. At this point, it’s impossible not to croon about how amazing and sweet and loyal and adorable he is, in a singsong or baby voice. He puts his front paws on my chair seat and demands eye contact. His gaze laments that we are too far apart. No one, absolutely no one, could resist this.

I do what I have to do. No one can stand that much cuteness. I scoot the chair back. On cue, he jumps into my lap and curls up like a cat. And I get back to work. In fact, that’s how I typed this.  

Turns out he is my most valuable writing tool. My muse. My pup. This one’s for you, Rigsby.

Dogs are terrific, 

~gregorific  

Pie and Lattes

Due to my deep love of all things yogurt, I will not draw any correlations between my previous post describing said love and my new interest in exercise. But ya’ll, you go ahead and find any significance you see fit.

Speaking of fit, my jeans don’t. Har har. But really. So I started something new. Everyday, I do what many brochures and doctors call physical activity.

I'm not completely new to the concept. In my youth, I was a very treadmill every day type of girl. Then I had kids. I considered them my treadmill. Now my two treadmills go off to school and I have nothing to run all over. 

So I've become loose with that phrase. I include vacuuming, frequent bathroom trips, and knawing on Twizzlers as aerobic. Hey, it gets my heart rate up. Kinda.

Now I've started to go on morning walks –fast- with my dog, or *gasp* morning runs. I used to joke that I only run if I’m really scared or super late. Now I run because I have so many ideas flooding my brain. I want to get back home to outline, revise, and edit. I’m motivated to get this exercise over with so I can get back to being sedentary with my laptop (best friend). And I want to get to the yogurt.

The quicker I run, the faster I get back to letting my muscles atrophy. Hmmm. If you read that the way I think it, then you’ll understand why I’ve been going to Pilates and other such classes. Witnesses, people. 

My good friend (holla!) and I have been doing a tour of all the free classes in our crazy-fit town. If there aren’t a dozen 5k runs in a weekend then hate mail is sent. People love their races. So there are plenty of local classes to pick from. We started with the cheapest. Because, duh, I’m a writer. A lot of classes are free the first time. That’s how they get you hooked. Or in my case, intimidated.

I tried Body Pump and yes, it was. I couldn’t walk properly for three days. I was like an old lady. But the actual class was fun and fast and very, very pumpy. Step was too bouncy for certain gregorific body parts. Yoga was almost perfect but too relaxing. Snoring did take place.

What I’ve settled on is Pilates. Who doesn’t like to play with big balls? Insert joke here. Or, slap self for being fresh here.

All the toys in the Pilates room seem so simple. Then you use them. And you’re torn between wanting to buy them and wanting to murder them. 

I bought a Pilates ball. My kids were thrilled. I got them each a Pilates ball so we could have our own classes. Same with the stretchy ropes. And the medium size balls. And soon enough, there is no such thing as a free exercise class.

My Pilates teacher/coach/super-fit-exercise-thinker-upper told us that Joseph Pilates saw his four-year-old nephew playing and realized how many muscles we stop using as we get older. He thought up a lot of Pilates by watching kids play.

I like that. Other things I like about my Pilates experience: There is soft music and dim lighting—why do all gyms have the opposite? I love how you do a lot of Pilates lying down—so convenient. And there aren’t so many repetitive motions. It’s kind of a Make it Count mantra. Also, any excuse to use the word powerhouse, core, and to roll like a ball or assume superman pose on a huge ball. I’m in.   

A basic aspect of Pilates is: if it hurts, stop. That is also my life philosophy. Too bad I can’t always follow it. Especially when it conflicts with another innate truth about a fermented milk product that is extremely tasty served frozen. 

Workin' my core, 
~gregorific