Phew and phew! Niece Piper is now zipping her way home and MB and I are free to resume our grumpy geriatric lifestyle, i.e:
Enjoying a bowl of meaty prunes, 3:00.
Shaking fists at skateboarding hooligans, 5:00.
Collapsing into Craftmatic adjustable bed, 5:02.
And, you know, thank God. Finally, my antsy inner fuddy-duddy can soar once more. What can I say? I yam what I yam.
Oh, and please forgive me if I fall asleep mid word or mid sentence here. I am old. I am a fuddy-duddy. I need my strength for fist shaking. And collapsing over that bed rail isn’t as easy as it sounds.
Plus, I’m pretty sure I’m drunk.
All righty, pippa. More snippets from our visit with The Peep.
~ On Monday, we took the whippersnapper to The World Famous San Diego Zoo. And that IS the official name. S’true. It’s no mere zoo. It’s The World Famous San Diego Zoo, for pity’s sake. It’s like the Britney Spears of zoos: I mean, people are always snapping pictures, jostling for the right position, waving their arms, trying to get that lion or this grizzly bear to look at them, like some crazed animal paparazzi. There’s plenty of naked nether regions on display everywhere you look. Some animal is always skanking it up, gettin’ preggers (ahem, pandas, you mangy trollops). And people are always needing to take baby animals away from their mammas to be cared for by someone else.
See? Totally the Britney Spears of zoos.
~ And, speaking on behalf of the BS of zoos — in my official capacity as the person who called it the Britney Spears of zoos — allow me to say you simply MUST visit the BS of zoos if ever you are in San Diego. And if you’ve ever been here and haven’t seen the BS of zoos, then, well, you clearly have dysentery of the soul or you have onions for eyeballs or you are most likely an Oakland Raiders fan. Because really, really, it’s an amazing zoo. Gorgeous. Breathtaking. I could stay there for hours and never be bored. Every other zoo I’ve seen looks like an FFA goat pen by comparison.
~ Oh! Here’s something for you to try. A kind of science experiment, okay?
Go outside.
Fill a large bucket with water.
Stand on a stool with bucket of water.
Pour bucket of water out onto ground.
Meditate for a moment on the sacred knowledge that you are basically witnessing the volume and look and sound of an elephant’s pee.
Oh, and do the whole thing again in 5 seconds. Your pee bucket was just taking a break, Betty!
And this time, bring the kiddos out to see it, carefully explain about the volume and look and sound of an elephant’s pee, all right, and afterwards, bask in the glow of their eager thanks at receiving this sacred knowledge.
Be confident in sharing — knowing that I witnessed this whole dealio firsthand and would not steer you wrong because I care about you and science and truth, blahdie blah et ceterahh.
Oh, but instead of a bucket, it was a real live peeing elephant five feet away from me and I am traumatized forever because of my oldness and general fuddy duddyness.
Piper, on the other hand, is unfazed. Ah, youth.
~ Moments later, we stroll past the anteater enclosure. (Yes, anteaters. Did I not tell you this is a rightly World Famous zoo??) There is a khaki-clothed fellow strewing ants, I guess, around the enclosure for the eaters of the ants to eat. One assumes. And whose job is it to gather all those teeny tiny ants, one wonders. Anyhoo. I didn’t want to ask the khaki-clothed fellow what, exactly, he was strewing even though he was only a few feet away because, well, it seemed wrong somehow, like breaking the fourth wall of my personal Theatre d’Zoo or something. Facing us, very close by, was an anteater eating — sucking? It’s all so confusing when you really start to think about it — from a trough. I literally could have reached out and touched its Dustbuster snout thingy — and I’m just using the terms found in my handydandy zoo guide here — but again, that would have broken the fourth wall of my personal Theatre d’Zoo. And gotten me in trouble. And been gross. But while I stood there thinking how convenient it would be to have a Dustbuster anteater at my disposal with no need of time-wasting battery charging, another anteater waddled past the khaki ant strewer with great purpose, completely ignoring the strewage, and proceeded to mount the eating anteater. This abruptly ended my reverie about cool Dustbuster anteaters. Stupid horny anteater. MB turned and muttered to me, “Annnd, congress is officially in session ….” as he swooped his arms around Piper and me and led us away. Still, I couldn’t help peeking over my shoulder to watch as the khaki ant strewer continued his task undaunted by the in-your-face public anteater fornication. And you know those darn kids weren’t using a condom. Soon enough, there’ll be another hungry little anteater to strew ants for. Stupid horny anteater. I walked away feeling bad for the ant strewer and traumatized forever because I am old and fuddy duddly and I saw anteaters having sex, for pity’s sake!
Piper, on the other hand, is unfazed.
(More snippets later. Craftmatic, here I come!)
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