As regular readers will know, I’ve been on a hiking kick lately. I can’t tell you how much fun Brody and I have had exploring the region together, despite my persistent and uneasy fears about mountain lions that my friend who has spent months researching said lions has done nothing to dissuade. Her only input was, “get an airhorn,” and, “you’re not running, are you? Because then you look like prey.”
No matter, it’s worth it. Better to go out in a flame of glory and be eaten by a cougar than be eaten by the couch.
Aside from the physical exercise and the mental stimulation of watching out for predatory cats, we are also enjoying the springtime blossoms and the less frightening forms of wildlife more prevalent in the area. Such as the oodles of lizards.
SO many lizards. Large ones, little ones, basking, scurrying. Despite this reptilian smorgasbord, I was somewhat surprised and not at all distressed that we haven’t come across any snakes. I am OK with this.
You’d think a desert mountain like this would be prime rattler territory- and it is- but they are generally avoidable if you stay to the cleared trails. In fact, the most assertive animal I’ve seen is this one:
Wile E. Coyote couldn’t give two hoots about all the humans around. Behind me, a group of schoolchildren ran amuk in the parking lot. He didn’t care. After spotting this guy I did mention to the woman with the off leash Maltese that she might want to reconsider her plans. (She did.)
My point is, it’s been a real pleasure to get out and commune with nature, especially since our own yards tend to be a little light on the wildlife-side. Except from that bobcat we had, I guess, and the skunk, and the coyotes. Seven years in this house and we’ve only seen a snake twice.
Oh, make that three times.
Today, my daughter opened the front door to go enjoy the afternoon sun, and let out a screech. “There’s a snake out there!” she yelled, slamming the door.
I walked over, thinking it would be another 12 inch gopher snake like the last one. And there, coiled on our welcome mat like the boss that he is, a King snake about 8000000 feet long. Somewhere between 3 feet and 8000000, at least.
He was a Burmese python as far as I’m concerned, a massive beast. It was kind of him to pose directly underneath the front window so we could safely press our faces to the door like a reverse zoo.
He soon realized he had an audience, craning his neck or whatever the heck snakes have to peer up at the five inquisitive primate and canine faces plastered to the glass in front of him. He stuck his tongue out as if to say, “I just came in from the sun for a moment, calm down,” and off he slithered into the front yard, passing right by the statue of St. Joseph huddled headfirst in the dirt like a sad ostrich.
I buried the St. Joseph statue as instructed by the more devout Catholics among you who informed me he is the patron saint of home selling, but maybe my behavior in college is still counting against me since I’m still waiting for him to pull through. So I guess I don’t really need to go far for wildlife, really- I have to find a way to work that to my advantage. I wonder if I should upgrade our MLS to read “Resplendent King Snake viewing from the front porch.” I’m sure that would bring ‘em in.
I opened Facebook on Mother’s Day morning, shortly after my chubby fingered kiddos brought me (and Brody) toast and eggs in bed, and saw this oft-repeated quote:
“A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.”
And I sighed. I really don’t like that quote.
It’s like what we talked about on Friday all over again. Hey, unless you’re cutting off your limbs and giving away all your pie and raising free range human children in a yurt, YOU AREN’T A REAL MOTHER.
Sure, it seems like a nice sentiment on the surface, but underneath it reeks of that judgy, who’s the most sacrife-y woman out there kind of martyrdom. And what kind of pie are we talking about here? Because if it’s berry pie, I will gladly say, “I never did care for pie,” and it would be true. But if it’s a banana cream pie, and I’m sitting there with my kids and my husband and some other person, I would cut a sliver off each of those four pieces and make me a Franken-slice. Because I like banana cream pie, and I would want some too. And there is nothing wrong with my solution, which leaves no one in the corner without any pie.
My sister and I were raised without any sort of qualifications on our growth, without any assumptions that gender would figure into our career choices. I wanted to be at various times a palaeontologist, an astronaut, a Blue Angel, the next great American author, and a neurosurgeon. It never occurred to me that I might one day have to negotiate the minefield of family and career, and that my choices about one might influence the other. And yet it has.
I know that some women have managed to figure it out, how to have it all. I envy them that. For me, family and career has been like a downhill slalom, weaving back and forth across the slope, putting my weight on the left leg, then on the right, trying to slow my descent enough so that I don’t fall and break my neck, trying to make it through all the gates; now school plays, now continuing education conferences, making toxic matchboxes, keeping the dogs in good health. I have given up trying to do one thing perfectly in favor of doing lots of things pretty well, and that is how life seems to go for people (men and women alike) who spend a portion of their lives in a caretaker position.
There were a lot of cool things I thought about doing as a veterinarian. I wanted to be a radiologist, or a dermatologist. Instead, I decided to dial back on work to focus on the kids a little more, and once they grew old enough for me to seriously wonder if that was something I still wanted to pursue, knowing what that would mean for the family, the answer was no. Instead, I dusted off that old rarely-used corner of my brain that delighted in writing, and worked on that. I’d say that worked out pretty well.
I have no regrets about the decisions I’ve made, no resentments. But one of the most important things I’ve learned while figuring all of this out is that we are allowed to take care of ourselves every once in a while. It’s not selfish to want to do that. Sometimes it seems like you can’t win; if an exhausted new mom goes out in sweats and greasy hair, she’s mocked as a slob, but if she decides to take time to herself to work out or go get her hair done, then she’s self centered, because of course all real moms know you should never put yourself first, not once or ever. And apparently, you aren’t allowed to ask if one might share a treat, either.
My husband did not really want me to go to Africa (I leave one month from today!) The timing is terrible. I will miss my kids’ last day of school since they inexplicably added three days to the end of the school year just a month ago, we’re in the middle of selling the house, and I just realized I will also be gone for Father’s Day. Yup. Bad, bad, bad mom. I am taking off and missing all of those things because I’ve wanted to do a trip with World Vets for years, and the opportunity presented itself. And once my husband realized just how excited I was to get to do this, he was happy for me too.
Kids are half a world away and I manage to work up a small smile. We all survived.
I suppose I could have just not gone. That is what a real mom would do, right? Sacrifice. Or would a real mother teach her kids that you should take a leap of faith every now and then and go do something really extraordinary? Ten years from now, will my daughter be emulating a woman who consistently choked down everything important to her, or one who said, ‘I’m going to go climb a mountain and then go hang out with some Maasai and some donkeys, because I worked really hard for years and years and I want to do something meaningful, and you will hang out with Dad and be just dandy.’
I really don’t feel horrible about it. I just spent five hours making a birthday party invitation for my son in Photoshop in between shuttling my daughter back and forth to play practice for the last month. I spend the other 50 or so weeks of the year staring at the empty pie plate of my free time, so this one time I am taking a slice for myself, taking it into the corner, and savoring every mother-loving bite.
I have Annie on the brain. My daughter’s community theater debut is in four days, and between now and the end of the month, this will be all I have going on. Annieannieannieannie. They worked their little keisters off on it, though, and it’s spectacular, so I am very proud.
When the casting call went out for Sandy, they were looking for three things:
scruffy terrierlike mutt
takes direction well
mellow
And of course, Brody is none of those things, so he was out, but they did find just the most perfect dog for the role.
This last Saturday was a grueling 9-5 all day rehearsal, which when you’re seven, is a lot. I mean, it’s a lot no matter how old you are, but for seven year olds and dogs, it’s particularly demanding. I didn’t even stay the whole time. But the cast did, and let me tell you, they did really, really well.
It’s been said time and time again that having pets around is good for people’s stress levels. Since this is my first time with this theater, I don’t know what the ambiance is normally like, but part of me wonders if the presence of a mellow dog who was fine with regular attention had something to do with the emotional well-being of the young cast. They certainly took advantage of his presence.
Gimme pets!
More? OK.
I hear you all had pizza for lunch. If there’s any crust left……
And when he was ready for some alone time, he found a quiet area right under the director’s feet to escape the solicitous attention of the girls of the Municipal Girls’ Orphanage.
It’s always good to have a pup around, that’s what I say.
A few days ago, my friend Dorian at Catster pointed out a rather mean-spirited post over at Huffington Post entitled, “Pet Parents are NOT Moms.” I am trying to give the author the benefit of the doubt here; maybe she intended it to be sort of tongue in cheek. She starts by pointing out all the sometimes over the top things we do in the name of love- and I get that, been there, bought the membership card- but the overall tone of the post just skewed off left and went straight to mean. And that just rubs me the wrong way.
I don’t know if Susan Maushart requires one to provide their credentials before pontificating on motherhood, but just to be sure, yes, I have human kids as well as some furry ones. I still refer to myself as Brody’s mom. I like that better than owner, though that works too. I go back and forth. I guess that makes me a monkey (though I would prefer to be referred to as a great ape.)
I need to make one thing clear: We all know that pets are not small humans in fur. They are, in fact, dogs, or cats, or ferrets or whatever. We relate to them differently than we do humans. I have yet to meet one person, and I’ve met a lot of people, who seem unclear on that distinction. Even the ones who dress them up because it makes them happy- yes, even those people know that it is an animal in a dress and not a human. So what? It’s not hurting you. The day I see one of those people wheeling the said dress-wearing cat into the pediatrician’s office for an MMR, then we’ll talk. Who cares if someone relates to their pet in a maternal way and wants to call them their kid?
Maushart’s main reason, as far as I can tell, for objecting to calling pets kids is “you and I both know that pets are stupid.” Is that the only criterion? Because I have to tell you, and this is confidential, but I’ve met a lot of stupid kids too, the kind who show up with peanuts lodged in their nostrils or pencils shoved through their eardrums because they want to know what lead sounds like. If I were to fall unconscious on a railroad track, for instance, this is the only eight year old I want by my side.
The author with her eldest, who will never ask to borrow the car or wonder why the other kids get more posts on the blog.
So who anointed Maushart Grand Vizier of the Ministry of Motherhood anyway? And what are the membership requirements exactly? Is it as strict as, “you must have birthed a human child from your own loins, and the child must then be smart, and raised on organic produce after you’ve nursed him for four years“? Oh yes, those moms are a blast to be around.
Motherhood is not a black and white concept. It just isn’t. I’ve spoken with adoptive mothers, who have shed tears when their child was asked who their “real” mom was. I’ve hugged women who have wept after a miscarriage and been told, “Well, you don’t get to celebrate Mother’s Day, you’re not a mother.” That hurts. It hurts because they felt that bond, regardless of whether or not you were empathetic enough to acknowledge it.
Some people, like me, have pets and kids. Some have pets instead of kids, because they don’t want them, haven’t gotten around to it, or maybe they can’t. I had clients once who were unable to have children of their own. They shared this freely when they brought in their Akita Bonnie, and laughed as they told me, “Bonnie’s our only child.” And was she ever.
Bonnie was involved in an accident. I have never seen two people so devastated. For a month, she was in the hospital, and for a month, her mother came in. I watched as she rotated her to keep her lungs inflated, massaged her legs to keep the musculature from contracting, listened to her whisper in her ear as she stroked her fur in order to get a happy thump of the tail. Every day she came in, and nursed Bonnie.
And when she unfortunately died, I leaned over Bonnie’s mom as her head was buried in her motionless chest, put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered, “Calm down. It’s not like you’re a real mom.”
Oh wait. I didn’t. Because I’m not that cruel. Couch it however you want in smug rolly-eyed condescending cheekiness, that post was mean.
So wear your Mom badge proud, moms of the world, and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, pity them. Because one day their kid will roll their eyes at them and tell them they hate them and do all sorts of other pleasant human-child behaviors, while yours will lick you on the face and pull your body off the railroad tracks. And have a happy Mother’s Day!
His mother called him “Wild Thing!” and Brody said “I’ll eat you up!” so he was sent to bed without eating anything.
That very night in Brody’s yard a forest grew, and grew until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around
And he sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year, to where the wild things are.
And when he came to the place where the wild things are they roared their terrible roars and gnashed their terrible teeth and showed their terrible claws
Till Brody said “Be still!” and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once
And they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all, and made him king of all wild things.
And Brody the king of all wild things said “I’m lonely!” and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.
So Brody waved good-bye and sailed back almost over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his own room
It’s Be Kind to Animals Week! Did you know that? You may know the American Humane Association best as the group that oversees animal use during filming and bestows the “No Animals Were Harmed” disclaimer at the end of shows and movies, but they are very involved in advocacy for not only animals, but also children- society’s most vulnerable members. Anyway, they started this special week and it’s a lovely opportunity to step back and reflect on what we are doing right, and what we could be doing better.
I know the people who read here are a self-selecting group that is already very aware of animal welfare, so this might be preaching to the choir, but it never hurts to have an official mandate to make a conscious effort to do a kind thing. Here are 5 different ways you can celebrate this week (and every week!)
1. Teach an old dog a new trick.
Studies in mice have demonstrated that mental enrichment can actually slow down cognitive decline due to age, a finding that can have huge implications for pets as well as people. Animals whose brains are challenged, through interaction, puzzle feeders, and daily tasks may actually tolerate the aging process better than those who lay about all day with nothing to think about. So keep up that Sudoku, because it probably affects us too. Brains: use em or lose em.
2. Offer to give a presentation to a school or scout troop.
No group of humans is more receptive to a talk about animal welfare than a group of little kids. And that’s a good thing, because they’re the ones who are going to grow up and take over for us some day. From how to greet a strange dog to how to teach a cat to sit, the possibilities are endless. It doesn’t take much: we want to get them engaged, because then they care- and you would be amazed at how often kids are the ones who get a busy parent to take a dog to training or to the vet.
3. Do a shelter drive-by
I have yet to come across a shelter or rescue that said, “We’re good, thanks” when I pop my head in on the way to Petsmart and asked, “What are you low on?” It’s something small- that’s what makes it easy- a few bags of Milk-Bones, some towels, toys, that sort of thing- but it’s a habit now, and it’s easy. Best part is, my kids see me doing it and are now coming up with drives and fundraisers of their own. The indoctrination has begun!
4. Pick a wildlife or environmental issue to learn about
We suffer from over-insulation sometimes, oblivious to the big picture because it’s not something that is confronting us immediately and doesn’t have an impact on our day-to-day lives. I’m not asking you to get a PhD, or make a $10,000 donation- just pick something, and learn about it. Then report back to me, because I want to learn about it too, be it the impact of human encroachment on mountain lion habitats, the impact of overfishing, whatever floats your boat. I don’t know when being inquisitive about the world around us went out of fashion- maybe it’s just me getting crotchety with age- but I, for one, embrace being nerdy and wanting to learn, learn, learn.
5. Don’t be afraid to stand up for animals
I’ve gotten my share of eye rolls from people when I’ve waited by cars on hot days to make sure the owner came back before the car overheated. I’ve had pursed lips from parents when I, as politely as possible, told their child that the way they were handling an animal was inappropriate- and why. (P.S. I’ve also gotten really good at giving them the Mean Stranger head shake when their parents aren’t looking. Yes, I go there.) I have to conduct myself in a certain manner as a member of the veterinary profession, but I also have an obligation to advocate for those who can’t do it for themselves. And I do. Politely, of course.
Any good suggestions I’ve missed? How will you celebrate Be Kind to Animals Week?
I couldn’t figure out why every single babysitter on our list turned us down for Saturday , and then I realized- oh, it’s Cinco de Mayo, otherwise known as A Good Day for Tacos and Cervezas here in San Diego. No self respecting college kid would be at home.
In honor of the occasion, I’m going to whip up some Brody’s Surf Shack Fish Tacos, crack open a Dos Equiis, and oh yes, put a sombrero on the dog.
*cue music*
He walks himself…because no one can do it better.
Cats hate him because he has TEN lives.
“Best In Show” was named after him.
Poodles call HIM for grooming advice.
When Cesar Milan met him, Cesar rolled on his back and peed.
He’s the only Golden Retriever who actually retrieves gold.
When he pees on dead grass, it turns green.
His annual shots are Patrón, Bacardi 151, and Jack Daniels.
I’m not really a football fan. Let me say that from the start. I married a hardcore Chargers fan, so I tolerate it out of necessity, but it’s never been a game I had an attachment to.
But I was a Junior Seau fan.
I grew up in Oceanside, Junior’s hometown, and our little town couldn’t be more proud of his success. He would come to high school pep rallies. He took care of his family and friends and neighbors and was actively involved in philanthropy. You couldn’t find a single person willing to badmouth him. In short, he was a real sports role model, the kind so uncommon these days.
The news of his suicide came as a shock to me and to his many many fans. Even in his utter despair, it’s thought he chose to end his life with a bullet to the torso instead of to his head so others might be able to study the effects of his career and brain damage. Here, at his lowest moment, still thinking of others.
It’s so hard to really know someone by outward appearances, isn’t it? Money, beauty, success, talent, none of it guarantees happiness. Depression is a nasty, nasty beast that can take down anyone, and no amount of fame or fortune can guarantee one immunity.
I’ve seen so many people in practice struggling with depression; sometimes I know because they tell me, and sometimes I know just because I know, all too well. Online, a lot of people have shared with me how their pet has helped them through tremendously difficult times, and that, too, I understand very well. There have been many times I have been so grateful for the calming weight of a warm dog’s shoulder, a much needed anchor in a storm.
I’m sad that the demons were too many for this man to bear, a man who had done so much good in this world and yet could not escape whatever internal weight he struggled with. We may never know the cause, be it injury or illness or genetics or circumstances, nor does it matter to me. I feel for everyone and anyone who has gone through that kind of anguish. So I’m just putting this out there to the universe in case someone happens upon it who needs to see it: yes, other people are out there who understand, and I promise, we care.
Bye, Junior. I’m sorry you left us so soon. If you see a big red furball bounding around up there, say hi from me, OK?
Once upon a midday dreary, home from working, weak and weary,
Staring with resentment at the “For Sale” sign perched near the door,
While I Facebooked, blogged and Tweeted, on the sofa, softly seated,
Suddenly I felt quite heated, heated staring at the floor.
“Tis an old juice box,” I muttered, “sitting crumpled on the floor-
Garbage there, it makes me sore.”
Ah, so clearly I recall that it was in the chill of fall,
And each separate messy creature wrought its carnage on the floor.
Eagerly I wished a buyer- in my heart there burned desire
To depart the marshy quagmire- husband’s work commute so poor.
Sell our home to some old man who will not mind these schools so poor.
Strapped school budgets, make me sore.
So we found a local guy, while claiming that his expert eye
Boldly- sold me with the thought of selling this unwanted house in four
Days or less, if we could merely rein in all the mess seen clearly
Keep this place pristine, sincerely perfect while it’s on the fore;
On the forefront of the MLS and then, yes, we will score;
Housekeeping, it makes me sore.
For a week my soul soared highly, thinking of a future brightly,
Far away from matchbox madness in a school where art’s taught more
But the fact is I was struggling with two kids and two dogs cuddling
All distraction so befuddling; ordered then to clean the floor.
“We’ve a showing in an hour!” I would yell, and be ignored;
Picking up, it makes me sore.
Days that stretched to weeks now looming, while I stood there darkly brooding,
Wound as tightly as a drum of doom that wasn’t there before.
Tidy for a week was easy, vacuuming twice daily breezy;
Wow, I thought, so easy peasy, why had I not done this more?
Such a clean and shiny house a pleasure, then, to show it more;
Thoughts of dirt, it makes me sore.
Now three offers all rejected, lowball buyers left dejected,
But not so low as I, for all that effort naught to show for tours
Endless footsteps of the masses, none were serious, all jackasses
Mostly neighbors full of crassness, snooping through my drawers and more;
All that effort keeping dog hair clean and swept up off the floor;
Dead inertia, makes me sore.
“Make your beds now!” I demanded, “Dirty dishes now remanded
To the court of no allowance if I spy one from the door!”
Clutter, shoes, and piles of dog bones, neatly stashed despite the loud groans
Making kids work over their moans, all to help us clear the floor;
Small familial price to pay to keep this place clean, nothing more.
Whining children, make me sore.
So to spy that juice box litter, tossed to earth with careless flitter
Filled me with a fury that my cleaning efforts were ignored.
How could children disrespect me, leaving juices circumspectly?
All my teachings, they reject me and my lessons as a bore.
“I had thought I raised you better than my pleadings to ignore!
Naughty children make me sore.”
But they disavowed all dark deeds, taking sides and making stark pleas,
Begging me to reconsider all my claims to add more chores.
“We did nothing! We aren’t guilty!” cherub faces claimed so sweetly,
“Listen here, we do entreaty!” pointing fingers towards the floor.
Towards the large and hairy creature dripping black fur on the floor.
“Unfair claims, they make us sore.”
“Oh, you’re clever,” I allowed, “Your sneakiness, it makes me proud,
Despite the fact that I should be more angry that you’re lying more.
But you must know that the truth is, dogs love food treats, not the juices,
How could Koa even do this, she can’t use a straw. Her four
And furry paws are ill-equipped to hold a juice box on the floor.
Subterfuge, it makes me sore.”
Then my youngest picked the box up, held to light- inspected, said “yup!
Have you looked more closely at the evidence upon the floor?
See the box? The many punctures? I would think that at this juncture
You should seek now new conjecture, looking now, Mom, to the floor.
To the sharp incisors of the hairy creature on the floor.
Being set up, makes me sore.”
Then methought the air grew less fine, perfumed by a nervous canine
Stung by steely glare that meant her crime was coming to the fore.
“Wretch,” I cried, “you tried to prank me- grabbing juices from the pantry
Then you fill the air so dankly, with your foul stench of gore.
Framing those who love you just so you could drink that juice some more,
Fooling me, it makes me sore.”
Then she rose, that dog so sticky, o’er to me, her mom so prickly
Tried to seek forgiveness for the mangled juice box on the floor.
Licking me with apple breath, wondering if I meant death
While I scrubbed the sticky mess, scrubbed the sticky from the floor.
Hoping no one then approached to come inside there on a tour.
No appointments make me sore.
And the Realtor, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pale and pasty concrete stoop outside my house front door.
And his eyes have all the seeming of a tired man that’s dreaming
To an end to all the seething, but he knows he’s facing more .Will I ever have an end to messy children, dogs, and more?
Quoth the Realtor, “Nevermore.”
As you all know, I am a chimpanzee fan. I had planned my bucket list trip to see chimpanzees before this movie was ever announced; I’ve toyed with the idea of making primate medicine a career; I got emotional and weepy when I heard Jane Goodall speak for the first time. I don’t think I ever posted this snippet from October because it looks like a bad outtake from Blair Witch: Africa, but my eyes were THAT WIDE because it was seriously that cool.
So needless to say, I had high expectations for this Disney Nature film.
But not too high. I’m the first to admit I didn’t really enjoy African Cats. I thought it was terribly depressing. I mean, it is a documentary and you can’t control nature, so if all you get for years of filming is cat cubs getting eaten by hyenas and elderly lionesses abandoned by the pride to starve on the savanna, you gotta roll with it. But there were so few uplifting moments to balance the sad ones that the whole thing had a terribly melancholic tone.
Life is rough- really rough- in African Cats.
Last week I took a group of kids- I was excited enough about the movie to voluntarily agree to go with more than just my own, which should tell you something- to see Chimpanzee. I had hoped it would be as good as the trailers made it appear.
I was so not disappointed.
The cinematography was stunning. The narration by Tim Allen was entertaining without being overbearing. But what made the film just amazing was something that no one could have predicted- a completely mind-blowing moment never before seen on film. (Don’t read if you don’t want spoilers, though the trailers pretty much allude to what happens anyway.)
Now we all know the party line on chimpanzees: the females are the loving nurturers and the males spend their time beating each other up, grooming, eating, and impregnating. They have never been known to be particularly nurturing to the young, and have even been known to kill them. So when little Oscar’s mother died during filming, the filmmakers were mortified. He was, after all, the star they had been following since birth, and now- well, this was bad. They knew what was probably going to happen to him, but they were helpless to interfere.
They watched as the other females rejected him. Too young to take care of himself, he lost weight. In a last ditch effort, he started shadowing the alpha male, Freddy, who had never shown youngsters much tolerance or even interest. Freddy was typical of alpha males, a hulking, somewhat surly male who had an imposing bulk and a grim stare.
Freddy noticed this little shadow. He looked at this face staring back at him, a potential future challenger.
Freddy grunted. He picked up a rock. Then he bashed open a nut and handed it to Oscar, who had been unable to master the task.
Freddy adopted Oscar in all senses of the word. The sight of this hulking male with a little wee one hanging off his back hit every “awwwww” button in my cranium, the same one that gets pinged by pictures of firemen holding kittens.
This is just not something you see every day, even if you spend every day watching chimpanzees. To have caught such an unusual and tender experience is a treasure. I can only imagine the reaction of the filmmakers as they watched this singular event unfold in front of them, a documentarian’s dream.
And boy, did they commit to this movie in every sense of the word. I enjoyed the making-of segment even more than the trailers, if only to appreciate what they put up with: scorpions, spiders, vipers, fire ants, and bees. Thank you, Disney Nature Filmmakers of Genius, for putting up with all of that to bring the Ivory Coast to the air conditioned comfort of my local cinemaplex.
Have you seen Chimpanzee yet? Will you? You TOTALLY should. And I rarely say that.
Chimpanzee, by Disney Nature: Two opposable thumbs up.
Passengers on a flight from Detroit were held aboard a plane at Chicago’s Midway Airport for more than two hours after a female passenger was suspected of having monkeypox, officials said Thursday.
The woman had been travelling in Uganda, according to officials, though they didn’t say when. She boarded a flight from Detroit to Chicago and while on baord, developed a rash. A family member told flight attendants that they suspected this woman had monkeypox, so the Chicago Fire Department called in the CDC, quarantined the plane for two hours, and then determined that no, the woman did not have monkeypox.
I come from a long line of hypochondriacs. My mother forbade me from travelling to Africa when I was in college, convinced I would come back with malaria, some sort of invasive roundworm, and a raging case of African trypanosomiasis. My sister got food poisoning at a dinner celebrating my graduation from vet school, which hit on the world’s longest one hour Southwest flight, which she spent cursing me for giving her Ebola. And when I started on a particularly long bout of allergy induced headaches, I put off going to the doctor for a month, convinced it was a slow growing brain tumor. This is why I avoid Dr. Google like the plague. All it does is make me paranoid.
People tend to fall into one of two categories: those who see illness in everything, and those who see it in nothing. There’s the client who brings their dog in for the skin tumor that turns out to be a nipple (true story), or the one who brings in the dog with the three pound tumor hanging off their chest that they thought was a small spider bite that would resolve on its own (also true.) We all know where this family member fits.
I bet I know exactly how this scenario played out. The woman was probably getting grief from her mother/cousin/whoever about going to Africa all along, sending her articles about yellow fever and people getting trampled by elephants and comparative analyses of the best water purifiers. She gets on a plane with said family member, who is already paranoid about her impending demise, and the second she breaks out in a minor rash from the hotel laundry detergent or whatever her loving relative sputters “I TOLD YOU SO!” and hits the call button, telling the flight attendant that this poor woman has monkeypox. Chaos ensues.
This is why I’m glad when I go back to Africa in June that it’s with total strangers and not, say, my mother (not that she would go anyway. Sleeping sickness and all of that.) A casual acquaintance would shrug at your rash and say, “Monkeypox? May want to get that checked out.” Even better, a veterinary acquaintance will give you a benadryl and laugh.
So which end of the spectrum do you fall into? And do you know anyone who’s gotten monkeypox recently?
This weekend we went and looked at houses. We can’t make any offers until our current one sells- SO HURRY UP SOMEONE AND BUY IT- but we can at least get a good feel for where we want to live.
We’re moving with two priorities in mind: lessen my husband’s commute, and get us into a good public school district. To that end, there are two communities we are considering.
Ticky Tacky Town is made up of little boxes on the hillside, and they’re all made of ticky tacky and they all look the same. And the schools are great and there’s lots of places like PF Chang’s and Starbucks and lots of people walking Vislas and Australian shepherds, and everyone’s yard is made of HOA compliant drought resistant sorts of materials, all master planned to blend in with the neutral stucco of the rows of homes.
Yes, it’s perhaps a tad dull in terms of character, but that is the reality of life in Southern California. The vast vanilla expanse of suburban doldrums is pretty much standard everywhere in newer homes, and with all other factors taken into consideration this is the place I was really pulling for. Boring, but pleasant. It got the job done. And then there’s Crazy Town.
Crazy Town is one I didn’t even think of considering until my husband brought it up. It’s old, it’s charming, and close to the water. The schools are great there too, but the community just couldn’t be any different. Multi-million dollar manses butt up to sprawling apartments and lots of itty bitty homes built in the 1940s, whose owners are slowly dying off and leaving the little downtown village area to the patisseries and coffee houses that are slowly popping up.
We went on Sunday, just to check it out, since I was pretty opposed to the idea. I sat on a bench at a coffee shop- excuse me, a ‘micro roaster’- and watched about 50 dogs of varying shapes and sizes wander by. On a three block stretch there was one chiropractor, two coffee stores, three groomers and two pet specialty stores. It was eclectic, low key, and the weirdest combination of pretty much everyone you would possibly run into on a Southern California beach.
Two miles up the road, crazy art museums and people with names like Biff and Muffy who do things like throw galas on a regular basis. Two miles down the road, fifty “medical herb” dispensaries and tattoo parlors and people named Stubby. And here in the middle of the two extremes, this crazy, eccentric, fifty flavors of awesome little beach village. I sat there on the bench and watched a guy load his beagle onto a Vespa. And that is when I realized maybe I didn’t want ticky tacky after all.
Now, instead of a nicely appointed standard issue tract home box, we’d be looking at a microscopic shoebox of a cottage, with four people and two dogs and a cat piled on top of one another in much less space than we were used to. We’d be struggling with old disguised as vintage, 1950′s plumbing and wiring and appliances, mold inspections, and battalions of magazine-selling shysters that never make it into suburbia since the HOA fees pay for people to chase them off. It’s a big tradeoff. Size for charm. And 99 cent fish tacos within walking distance.
So I don’t know. Since we’re still in the middle of selling our current home I don’t know exactly when the decision will have to be made, but it will soon enough. But I found it strange that despite its seeming perfection, nothing about seeing a coterie of perfectly coiffed middle aged women standing outside the Ticky Tacky Town Pilates Studio appealed to me, perhaps because I’ve talked to people like that, and none of them like puns or think putting disturbing pictures in your bedside table to toy with snoopers is a clever idea.
Of all the things that made me say, “I could fit in here,” it was the front and center presence of so many strolling dogs in Crazy Town that really did it. Though if I’m being perfectly honest with myself it probably isn’t that strange at all. You see that so infrequently these days.
And I could totally see Brody in a Vespa sidecar. Decisions, decisions.
