Spinning in Circles

A couple of weeks ago I was at an audition to teach spin at a new gym and take on my FIFTH part-time job and I met a really frickin' crazy woman.

I realized after typing that last sentence that it's looking like (in a hushed tone), I am the crazy person of whom I speak. 

Despite evidence to the contrary, I'm not as crazy as I may sound, I swear. 

Let me explain- See, I go to the gym every Thursday morning anyway, so why not get paid for it, right? I mean, the whole reason I decided to become a spin instructor was basically so I did not have to arrive 30 minutes before the beginning of a spin class in order to reserve my bike. I could just show up, moments before class started and I'd get to pick the music for the whole class instead of listening to Van Halen or techno music for an entire hour. 

So really, it makes perfect sense to become a spin instructor if you are a control freak with superior taste in music that is prone to tardiness, as I am.

Crap.That actually makes me sound even crazier.

This was not what I was planning to write. This has taken a surprising turn, indeed.

So, anywhooooo....

A few weeks ago I drove an hour across town to the gym where auditions were taking place, one of the worst neighborhoods in town. I scanned the parking lot and ran serpentine through the parking lot wondering if I had chosen the wrong colored bandanna for that neighborhood to mop up my sweat. 

I sat down and completed in the smallest, weirdest application I'd ever seen. It was just for their, "records" since they already had my resume via the on-line application process so, whatever. It basically asked me to spell my name and give a phone number and emergency contact in case I died during class. I figured there was an excellent chance of getting nailed in a drive-by shooting in the parking lot because of my blue bandanna so I used my best handwriting on that part.

I'm guessing most of you are not spin instructors because 1) most people are not 2) if you were, you would too narcissistic to read a blog that was not about yourself, and so I'm also guessing you've never been to a spin instructor audition so allow me to tell you what usually happens:

• You arrive at the assigned time for your audition and then stand around for about 40 minutes while the girl behind the desk tries to locate gym manager
• You meet the other 19 instructors that you are competing against for the one job you all applied for on Craigslist
• You act nice to your competition but secretly you hope they all suck, have seizures or pull a hamstring during their audition
• You try to guess the ages and the number of cosmetic procedures performed on the other instructor-wannabe's. You tell yourself you look waaaay better than at least one of them (it will not matter to you that she is in her 70's and has a lazy eye)
• You are eventually lead to the cycle room where each applicant has about 3 minutes to instruct a workout. The group consists of the gym manager and the other applicants that you just spent 40 minutes sizing up, through a song of your choice
• You leave having no idea if you got the job or why you thought a French braid and camouflage bandanna was a good choice for your "look"

So after handing my abbreviated application back to the girl at the desk, she lead me to the workout room that looked like any other cycle room except for two things:

There was not a room full of others waiting to audition. 
There was not even a room full of bikes. 

It was just two ladies, dressed in business suits and sitting at a small table that was set directly in front of one spin bike. Uh-oh.

Linda was in her mid-forties and used to be a spin instructor. Bev was in her mid-fifties but she didn't say what her previous experience was. I had a feeling Bev was the boss as she did most of the talking. I also got the feeling that the last time Bev saw a gym was as she walked passed it on her way to Chico's clothing boutique.

Both ladies were all smiles to me as they did their best to make me feel comfortable. They asked me all sorts of questions about my past life experience, my husband and my kids. They did not ask me about my workout routine or my instructor experience. They told me that they were only in town for the auditions-  Linda was from a neighboring state, while Bev came from across the country. I realized that they were Big Wigs as they told me how the national chain of gyms they worked for had plans to build 18 more warehouse-sized gyms in the city where I live. Gulp.

And then they asked me to "teach" a class.

Now, a lot of instructing is sort of like acting, in that you have to act like one or more of the following:
1) you are not working as hard as you actually are because you can't look like you're out of shape 

2) you are working harder than you actually are because you're super tired or on your period or you already worked out that day and (or) you just feel like phoning-it-in that day

3) you have NOT heard that song by Pink a bazillion times already this week

...however, I'd never had to act like I was talking to a room full of people before this. But what the hell- I'm crazy, right? I figured they'd either think I was a nut and rip up my resume or they'd realize I could fake my way through anything and hire me. So I demonstrated how to set up a bike in front of a room full of new-to-spin gym members and then "taught" an entire four minute routine to these same, imaginary people. I threw out phrases like, "You got it!", "Don't slow down!" and "Just give me 10 more seconds!" as if I had a twenty, sweaty ladies in front of me working their asses off.

The ladies cheered for me and held direct eye contact with me as they sat at their little cafe table a few feet from me. It was a strange and surreal experience. I felt naked and wondered if this is how it would feel to go pro as a stripper for the first time. And they cheered for me as I dismounted the bike.

Bev began by congratulating me on my attitude, my enthusiasm and my choice of music and then she said she wanted to give me a little piece of advice...At this point, I think I knew she was going to say something off- but it still sort of threw me.

She said, "When you're up there- on the bike. Try to give more. I mean, you're attitude is wonderful, and you're very motivating...just try to give..."

I stood there and waited as she completed the sentence.

"More..."

Um. Ok.
More what?

Bev continued and this time she gestured with her hands, palms turned upward as if she was kneading imaginary bread in mid-air, "I mean, you're up there. And you have the attention of the entire class. And they're watching you. And you're showing them how to do it. Just give them...more...." she said as she looked beyond my shoulder.

More what?
Who's on first?

So, I get it. I'm naturally very dry and monotone. I can fix that.
"So, I need to be more enthusiastic?"

"Oh no! Your enthusiasm is great!", she said with a smile, "I just want...mooore...", she trailed off.

More what?!??!?

 "Do you know what I mean?" she asked, looking me straight in the eye. Finally, an opportunity for some clarity on what, exactly, she wanted more of.

"Yes. I know exactly what you mean", I said, acting once again.

And I smiled.
And Bev smiled.

And she offered me the job that day.

Shit Mouth

Some random and surprising shit that has wound up in my mouth since becoming a parent.


Humble Pie- For all the times I vowed that I wouldn't let parenthood change me. Though some things (that perhaps should have) have not changed. 

I still call people (including my children), "Dude" more often than anyone my age should. 

I still make inappropriate jokes whenever possible and laugh at them myself.

I still think Doc Martens and Levi's are cool- even if they're not (please don't tell me if they're not). 

I can now stand to be around children and not be driven totally crazy. 

And the biggest change- I have begun to like the color pink and I don't become enraged when I think about princesses.

Shit- Or lack there of, actually...Since becoming a parent and leaving my job at the city zoo, I have not once gotten the poop or pee of undomesticated animals in my mouth. Poop and pee from my undomesticated children on me? Oh yeah, all the time. 

Neither have I been bitten by a lemur, jumped on by a teenage squirrel monkey, scratched by a toucan or farted on by a Watusi cow. Bitten, jumped, scratched and farted on by the two-legged undomesticated ones in my house? All. The. Time.

Ass of Dog- The Overloving Staffy, Matilda needs to be a part of every magical parenting moment that occurs in the house. Everyday the dog is with me or Tall Guy while reading the kids stories at bed time, putting kids in time-out or just playing with the tow-legged undomesticated ones. Once while laying on the floor on my back, my two-year old Cave Girl was riding up and down on my legs. It was at this point that the dog decided she needed to be involved and that she must sit on my face. Yes, I ate dog ass.

400 Bags of Potato Chips- I'd like to blame this on hormones but it's probably much more complicated than that. I have become obsessed with the salty goodness of cheap potato chips and could easily put away an entire bag every night (though I always force myself to stop at a half bag). Now you know why I (must) go to the gym 5 times a week.

Countless gallons of Costco brand vodka- Many of us go through a 'drinking phase' after turning 21. Unlike most non-alcoholics, I have gone through countless 'drinking phases'. 

When the Tall Guy and I moved to Asia to teach English when we were in our late 20s we both went through another drinking phase that lasted nearly a year. Upon return to the U.S. I found that late-night drinking got in the way of my early morning runs so it was an easy choice to quit (running. Ha! Kidding! I totally didn't drink for a few years there).

Now in my forties with little opportunity or energy or money to go out on the town, I'm going through my third drinking phase. At least I'm hoping it's just a phase...Since discovering that I am basically immune to hang-overs as long as I stick to a medium quality, clear booze, I am still able to run, swim or bike without issue the next day. In fact, in the process of starting a Runing Mom's Drinking Club right now. 

We're calling it Run-DMC- they're still cool, right? 

Don't tell me if they're not.

Currently accepting applications to participate in Run-DMC. Send a note listing of your favorite drink, best mile time and the worst thing you've ever had in your mouth. Tape this list on a 1.75 liter bottle of Costco brand vodka and leave it on my doorstep and I will get in touch with you as soon as possible.


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This post has been brought to you by the letters T and T. They stand for Theme Thursday. Click on the button thingy and check out what a small group of wacky women like to have in their mouths....

Everybody's Smiling, Sunshine Day!

So, um, wow.
Thank you Ms. Clever and Ms. Monkey, as of yesterday morning I was awarded the Sunshine Award  by TWO awesome bloggers, at Something Clever 2.0 and Three Monkeys and a Martini.

The Sunshine Award is passed down from blogger to blogger like a chain letter or pyramid scheme except nobody dies if it doesn't get passed (Yaaay!) or makes a shitload of money if it does (Booo!). Recipients of this prestigious award all posses that "drop of golden sun"-like attitude towards life. Clearly, I have received the nominations in error. 

However, I am still honored because,two cool bloggers think I'm cute. And yet, really- Me? Sunshine? Clearly you both must still be buzzed from whatever you drank/popped last night. Or conversely, both Clever and Monkey have gone off their meds. Maybe a combination of all three.

Anyhow, as usual, along with great honor comes great responsibility. And as honored recipient, I am required to answer some questions before I pass the award along to some other worthy bloggers. 

Follow along, as I am now tasked with answering some not-so-sunshiney questions that I found somewhat disturbing. As usual, reader discretion is advised.

Name  A Girl Named Sue

Day Telephone 867-530 niiiiiiiiyyyne

Age at first menstruation About 27 years earlier than it should have been

What treatment do you use for cramps? I complain more than usual while Tall Guy feigns sympathy and pretends he has not heard it every 28 days for the past 15 years

Any PMS symptoms?  If so, describe: Yes. My moods become very erratic and I lose my patience easily with kids, dog and husband. I've been told it's difficult to recognize the difference between this particular time of the month and other time of the month with me

Ever Pregnant? With emotion? All the time, when I am knocked up. Or watching Knocked Up while being knocked up

Any breast problems? Definitely. The problem is they are a little floopier than I'd like

Do you examine your breasts regularly? Yes, once I put on a jog bra because then they are super sweet

Have you had sex with (Check all that apply) Men Women There are men and women applying to have sex with me? Is this a part of the award too?? I am loving this award!

If you use contraception, what form(s) do you use? I find that not having sex works great at keeping my uterus free of babies

Do you wish to continue with this method? No. I like having sex. In fact I love having sex- especially with my husband- Do you have a pill that will clean my house, take care of my kids and make me well rested? I think they call it a Spanish Fly or something. Please get back to me on that. Stat!

Are you taking any medications? No. And yes, the medical community is still scratching their heads in wonderment about this

Do you smoke? After a few drinks I think I am smoking hot. Does that count? I also think I am 27

How much alcohol do you drink each week? I will take the fifth on that. A fifth of Costco brand vodka, thank you very much. Oh, weekly? About a case of that, actually

Have you taken “recreational” drugs? Define "recreational". No, I did not go camping while on drugs. I did go to Disneyland on LSD in college once, does that count?

If yes, which ones? How 'bout we make this easier and I just tell you what I haven't used


Oh shit, you guys-

Turns out the questions above are from the form I have to fill out before my OB-GYN exam next month. My bad.

Well, this makes sense now, here's a complete list of the real questions I was supposed to answer but am now way too tired to do so:

1. What is your favorite Christmas/festive movie?

2. What is your favorite flower?

3. What is your favorite non-alcoholic beverage?

4. What is your passion?

5. What is your favorite time of year?

6. What is your favorite time of day?

7. What is your favorite physical activity?

8. What is your favorite vacation?

And although I totally screwed up the question thing, I will not eff-up handing off The Sunshine Award to five other awesome bloggers. 

Here are the funny-as-shit blogs that are the latest recipients of this prestigious flower-sticker- Sunshine Award! 

You made me (and lots of other lost souls) smile today!

Jackie-Ohhhh
The Artist Formerly Known as Lanna Cottrell
Potentially Crap Blog
Go Merrily!
Life on the SONny Side

Remember, bloggers, if you chose to accept the award, just pass it along to five other bloggers and don't forget to post your complete gynecological history on an upcoming blog.

OR you can answer the real questions listed above just like a normal person, not in need of prescription drugs. Or you can pretend, like the French knights in reference to the holy grail sought by King Arthur (in Monty Python's Holy Grail) that you "already have one" and totally ignore this.

Either way, have a Sunshine(y) Day !

Shit I've Accomplished This Week

After a very busy two weeks attending to my injured and needy knees and mother, I have finally found myself back at the laptop. 

Despite missing blogging about really important things, I feel good about my absence in the blogosphere thanks in no small part to how totally f*cking awesome I am because of all the other shit I got done. 

Don't feel intimidated when you read the list of all the awesome shit I got done- you can always shoot for next week and aim low as I like to do.

• Put away most of clothing from the spare bedroom/laundry expo room downstairs so my my mom could spend the week with us.
• Found new home for "spirited" puppy that helped break my 70 year-old-mom's wrist while on a walk
• Did physical therapy for my knees every other day
• Thought about swimming as a low-impact alternative to jogging or aerobics several times
• Blogged about swimming once
• Took a two hour nap 
• Almost had friends over for a barbecue (they had to cancel at last minute)
• Did not clean or stress about not cleaning prior to barbecue
• Did not get wasted in front of friend in 12 step program
• Got kid up from nap, as suggested by the Tall Guy, so she wouldn't be up all night tonight
• I GOT LAID!

Just to make you feel better about not doing half the shit I did, here's a list of the things I did but perhaps need improvement on

• Piled rest of clothing from spare room on various horizontal surfaces in the house or on closet floors
• Pawned off annoying puppy on very good friends 
• Lied in my blog about how often I did PT for my knees the past two weeks
• Actually went swimming as a low-impact alternative to jogging or aerobics once
• Yelled, "CANDY!" from downstairs in order to get kid up from nap quickly
• Psst- totally do not mention to the Tall Guy that I got laid last night- he may start to become suspicious

So what the hell did you get done this week that you are proud, ashamed of or lied about? 

Teeeell me- you can post it anonymously and it would almost be like going to church!

(See that? You can now add "Went to church" to your own Shit I've Accomplished This Week as well as your Shit I've Lied About This Week list)

The Empty Wheelchair

It's been a long, hot summer and this week the weather is cool enough so that I'm no longer in danger of dehydrating before leaving the driveway for an afternoon run. Despite the nearly overwhelming desire to hit the dirt trail just 100 yards from my house, I'm trying to be smart and reduce the high-impact stuff until my knees are on the mend.

After a tough 40 minutes on the elliptical with nothing but Hoda and Kathy Lee to watch on the gym's tv while I elliptesized (oh, hell yeah, I'm making that a verb) and listen to music, I limped to the locker room to change. Knees and ego still aching from last week's diagnosis of "bone on bone" in the right knee and what I'm going to call, Oldageitis in my left, I suited up for an uninspired swim.

As usual, I forgot to shave and so I peeked out of the locker room to see if there was anyone else doing laps and how embarrassed I should be in case anyone noticed my 'situation'. The pool was still- it's surface like an aqua-blue pane of glass. Relieved, I flip-flopped to the edge of the pool where I stood and tucked my recently dyed hair into a very unflattering swim cap. 

There was an empty wheel chair sitting at the edge of the pool. I thought it was weird and the only explanation I could come up with was that someone had left it there and that this person must be nearby and would come back to get it. 

It is this thought process that clearly demonstrates the obvious- that raising children has riddled my brain with gaping holes that obstruct my ability to think in any logical manner whatsoever.

Then from the far end of the pool, I hear a mans voice ask, "So, are you swimming a mile these days?"

I realized it was the owner of the wheel chair. 

He was walking the pool's perimeter at a pace so slow that his movements left no discernible wake in the water.

His name is John and every few laps or so when I'd stop to catch my breath (yes, that's either how very, very fast I swim or that's how taxing swimming is for me), John and I would chat for a minute or two. 

John smiled as he spoke about some of his accomplishments. Twenty-five years earlier he had been a quadriplegic but eventually he was able to learn how to use the left side of his body and he still hadn't given up the hope that he would one day leave his wheelchair behind. Two years earlier, after turning 50 and after much pool training, he had been able to walk 40 feet without assistance. 

But like me, injuries had set John back and he had to change his workout routine. Unlike me, John didn't seem to feel sorry for himself and I did not hear him complain once about his struggles at the gym or the challenges he must face on a daily basis.

So, I shut up and swam. 

I swam twice as long as I had planned while chatting with John. After forty minutes, he finished the last 20 or so meters and was back where he left the wheelchair that had confused me so.

His goal was to go from his current one lap around the pool perimeter to four laps and eventually out of his wheel chair. 

My goal is to appreciate what I can do, stop complaining about my minor aches and pains, to never give up on my goals and never, ever forget about my swim with John.

Knee Jerk Reaction

I thought I hurt my knee doing squats and lunges at the gym the other day.

But as it turns out, I actually just got old.

The exam and xrays confirm that I have no acute injury, just wear n' tear typical of a very active, a-hem, person of a certain age. So the bad news is that no matter how often I go to the gym or how many miles I can run, these activities cannot stop my knees or all my other parts from aging. Grrr....

High on pain meds in the middle of the day, I've begun to think of all the dangerous poorly planned dumb things I've done in my life and my career and I came up with the following:

Tracking and tranquelizing black bear in the wild as a Game and Fish intern - No injury
Lifting Gigantasaurus baby out of crib multiply times daily for 18 months - Torn rotator cuff

Running 5 marathons with less than optimum "long runs" while training - No injury

Running 6th marathon in new (tight) shoes - Stress fracture of metatarsal (broke foot)

Jumping into arms of friend standing waste-high at the bar pool in Mexico in order to demonstrate a pivotal scene in Dirty Dancing - Bruise on bottom of foot

Upping my workouts to two hours daily, 4 days a week in order to continue to eat and drink as many potato chips and diet tonic and vodkas as I want and then finding out the pain in my knee is not a torn ACL but just worn down cartilage - Enormously bruised ego

*Sigh*

Livin' the Dream- My First Day as a Zookeeper

I always wanted to work with animals and in the dark days before the advent of Animal Planet as a kid I actually wanted to be Jim Fowler. Jim was the compliant assistant to Marlin Perkins of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom.

Marlin Perkins on Wild Kingdom in a time before digital maps.
And good lighting. 

Being Marlin Perkin's 'assistant' meant doing all of the work wearing kick-ass, khaki pants and a sweet leather belt. It also meant being forced out of a Jeep or boat by Mr. Perkins in order to subdue a 40 foot long crocodile or something similar. Mr. Perkin's calming voice-over would offer up a narrative that made it sound like wrestling a croc was a perfectly normal thing to do and there was no danger whatsoever involved.

Marlin pointing out a crocodile to Jim so he could wrestle it by hand, into submission

After landing the ultimate, animal lover's dream job- working at a zoo- I quickly learned that Mr. Perkin's calm demeanor in the studio may have been a tad misleading.

"Just kiddin'! There's no croc- It's really a bear!" exclaims Marlin, much to Jim's delight

On my first day as a zookeeper, I was told that I would not be working with animals that day. The time would be spent filling out W2's, getting my zoo issue cargo pants and HR bullshit. And I would be doing all of this while spending the entire eight hours with my new boss, Tawny, a zoo keeping veteran of 20 years.

Yes, that is my ass and yes, I worried about splitting those pants every single day

Tawny was of indeterminate age but you would recognize her as the older lady with the over-processed hair that was rockin' out at The Scorpions concert you attended in 9th grade. Although it was nearly 15 years ago I can still recall Tawny's hair, voice and hands. She spoke like Jeff Spicoli and had speckled, leathery hands that showed every minute of the 20 years she spent working in the desert sun. 

Imagine the hair a little bigger and replace the checkerboard Vans with a rake and the bagel
with a walkie-talkie and  you've pretty much got Tawny.  And add a Scorpions concert T shirt.

With the exception of one very brief moment, most of that day remains a blur to me.

Ah, but that one moment.

I toured the zoo with Tawny in a golf cart that looked to have been built during the Johnson administration. It had been converted to have a mini truck bed on the back in order to transfer big buckets of poop around zoo grounds. While we drove past- no joke- a 15 foot wall of shit Tawny referred to as the "compost" pile, she received a call on her walkie-talkie. The conversation went something like this:

Disembodied static-y voice on walkie-talkie: "The tiger just arrived."

Tawny: (to walkie-talkie voice) "We can be there in five minutes"

Me: (in my own head, "I'MGOINGTOSEEATIGER, I'MGOINGTOSEEATIGER, I'MGOINGTOSEEATIGER, I'MGOINGTOSEEATIGER, I'MGOINGTOSEEATIGER!!!")

And then Tawny turned to me and asked, "You want to go see a tiger?"

 "Um, yeah. Ok", I said, super casual and all, AS IF PEOPLE ASKED ME TO SEE VISITING TIGERS EVERY FUCKING DAY.

So this part is a little fuzzy. All I know is that a new male tiger named, Dutch, had just arrived by truck after being hauled across the country for nearly a week. I had no role to play in the transfer of Dutch's 12 foot long shipping crate from the back of a truck and into the tiger night-house*.  I tried my best to stay out of the way during the hour long procedure.

(*A 'night-house' is zoo-speak for the small, decrepit building that zoo animals are locked into at night, usually located at the back of the exhibit. They are usually infested with rats, scorpions and cockroaches as well as the odd tiger or lion.)

By the time we arrived, all of the zookeepers involved in the tiger transfer process were already inside the night-house. Tawny led me through the night-house- it reminded me of old-timey, underground jail cells. Lots of concrete, little ventilation and a long, narrow hallway. The smell was not totally unpleasant, like how you imagine your house would smell if your cat weighed 200 pounds instead of 9 and he peed on your couch every time you got home late from work. And you have a swamp cooler. That needs servicing.

As we began to walk down the hall, Tawny stopped in her tracks and looked me straight in the eye. She told me to "stay close to this", and gestured to the decades-old concrete wall with chipping paint on my left side. Um, ok, whatever. I practically rolled my eyes but instead I followed her quickly down the hallway without another word between us. 

On the right side of the hallway was just a chain link fence that I could have touched if I had stretched my arm a bit. Behind the chain link was a cell about 10 x 15 feet. Much to my disappointment the room was completely void of tigers and I felt gypped. Because I was hired to be a  zoo keeper for the animals that were used for educational presentations to church groups, nursing homes and rich, three-year old birthday parties, I would be limited to working with small parrots, snakes and hedgehogs. Odds were pretty good (unless I was lucky enough to see one escape!) that if it didn't happen today, I would not be seeing a tiger at the zoo anytime soon.

At the end of the hallway I was safe from harm as well as any chance of watching the probably very pissed off tiger enter his exhibit for the very first time. And although I couldn't see the tiger, I could see the head zookeeper, watching the silent crate at the end of the hallway. He was armed with a shotgun (no, not a dart gun, a SHOTGUN) just in case the shit hit the fan. Oh, and all the doors were locked. We were locked in. With a tiger. A probably very pissed tiger.

Why were we locked in? says you. I'm glad you asked.
On the off chance that the tiger would escape, the doors would remain locked until the tiger could be "contained". Or until he ate everybody.

(*Spoiler alert No. 1: I did not get eaten by a tiger on this particular day, however, later in my career I was locked inside one of those small rooms with a 500 pound African lion that was unexpectedly waking up under anesthetic. This was done in order to contain him until the tranquilizer began to take full affect and so that he wouldn't eat the zookeeper manager. The manager had locked herself safely in the lion-free hallway while leaving us in the cage to die deal with the situation. Another time the same manager also locked me and some zookeepers in with a waking-up orangutan.  *Spoiler alert No. 2 : I did not get eaten by the African lion *Spoiler alert No. 3: I did not get eaten by the waking up orangutan) 

I gathered that Dutch had safely exited his crate and entered his new bedroom because I could hear the keepers at the end of the hallway speaking in hushed tones. I could hear some of them using their 'kitty' voices saying comforting things like, "Hi, Dutchy!", "Easy now, Dutch", "You're ok, buddy" and "If you're going to eat someone, please eat that stupid looking new girl down the hall", or something like that, I think. Maybe. Pretty sure.

Although I couldn't see him, I knew by the eyes of the motionless keepers standing at the end of the hallway, that Dutch was pacing around his new bedroom. And I was right- the low growl/rumble/low frequency demonic verses coming down the hallway were not sounds indicative of a happy kitty. I was pretty sure they were the sounds tigers made before eating people. 

Everyone seemed to exhale a sigh of relief as Dutch was finally secure in his night-house and everyone could leave.Tawny stood at the far end of the hallway from me and motioned for me to come down to where she stood. At that moment I realized why she seemed so Bruce Willis-y earlier when she told me to "stay close" to the wall side of the hallway.

I was going to have to walk past that furious fucking tiger.

And now the hallway seemed extra long.
And extra narrow.
And control over my bowels seemed iffy at best.

Now, in the very small world of people that work with wild animals, there's a fine line between brave and stupid and I knew I needed to straddle it carefully. Both my reputation and my safety were at risk. And maybe my undies. Walking too close would probably make Dutch even more uneasy in his new place and his reaction would be unpredictable (cower in a corner vs. eating through chain link in millisecond and then eating my head). Walking too close the wall on my right would imply that I was scared to walk past a tiger that was safely locked up, even if I wasn't (but I actually really was). 

WWJD?
What Would Jim (Fowler) Do?, I thought to myself. 
He would look cool, that's what he would do. Whatever he did, he would look cool. 

So, I did my best to walk coolly, calmly, quickly down the almost middle of the hallway, a touch or two closer to the wall on my right. I stared straight down the hall as I began to walk the 15 or so feet past Dutch's bedroom. 

And that's when that unforgettable moment happened.

I didn't see him spring from where he was pacing at the back of the bedroom or even jump up on his hind legs. What I did see was the face of Dutch, a full grown Sumatran tiger, roaring less than three feet from my face as I walked past. I don't remember how loud it was (though on later trips to the lion/tiger night-house I was impressed with the how loud the roars of the cats were), I just remember actually feeling the roar. In my chest. My chest actually vibrated. Or I had stress-induced heart palpitations. Either way, I remember it in my chest.

The rest of that day was a blur, the only other thing I remember was thinking throughout the entire day, I got a job at a zoo!  I got a job at a zoo! I got a job at a zoo!


Whether my underwear life changing experience was because I was concentrating too hard on not looking scared (but I actually was) or because Dutch was ninja-fast, I'll never know. All I do know is that it was the first of a handful of times my body reacted in a very visceral way in response to a perceived animal threat.

Years later going  down the narrow hall past the tiger 'bedroom' for a veterinary procedure.
The oxygen is just in case a new zookeeper passes out when an angry kitty roars at him/her

And so the second day on the job led to the next and the next. My job changed more than once while at the zoo and I even left the zoo a couple of times so I could goof around overseas for several years. More than ten years went by and I kept returning to that dream job.

What I do remember is that Dutch was the first animal I met on both his and my first day at the zoo. Many years later, by then working as a veterinary technician at the animal hospital on zoo grounds, I was beside Dutch during his final moments. And despite some dark days, like the day we said goodbye to Dutch, working at the zoo really was a once in a lifetime job. It was there I had the pleasure and honor of working with some of the most amazing zookeepers and incredible animals I've ever known.

And although I had a few more adrenalin rushes working with sick, injured or not-quite-anesthetized animals I never did poop in my pants. 

Poop on my pants. Yes, just about every day but it was never my poop.
Poop in my pants. Nope, not once.

I doubt even Jim Fowler can say that.

*********************************************************************************

Click on any one of the links below to see what other blogger's 'dream job' experiences have been- It will probably give you insight at why so many bloggers are emotionally damaged/fragile people

Something Clever 2.0 http://www.somethingclever2point0.com/

Aspiring to the Middle http://mf-aspiring.blogspot.com/

Cloudy With a Chance of Wine http://cloudywithachanceofwine.com/

I like beer and babies. http://www.ilikebeerandbabies.com/

Mod Mom Beyond IndieDom http://modmombeyondindiedom.blogspot.com/

Mommy Rotten  http://blog.mommyrotten.com/

The Next Step http://lorihokie.blogspot.com/

a calibama state of mind http://calibamamom.wordpress.com/

Mom With Her Running Shoes On http://momwithherrunningshoeson.blogspot.com/

Who Woulda Thought? http://whowouldathought-kevin.blogspot.com

The Insomniac's Dream http://hypnoticbard.blogspot.com/

Each Thursday you'll have a chance to check out what a bunch of different crazed bloggers (redundant, I know) have to say about a particular topic.

My Butt Has Come into Question

I was actually able to find a picture of me running.

This picture has not been doctored at all- this is really the look I have on my face when I run.

Now you know why I run.

Because, obviously, I'm bringing sexy back.

Why I Got Naked for My Childhood Friend

After being head-butted this morning by an enormous toddler noggin for the ten millionth time since 2008 I began to think of how many injuries I've sustained since because of having children. 

I decided I needed to compile an injury list to include some of the more "dangerous" activities I've been involved with as an adult. This might help me see if I made good life choices when I decided my marathon days were over and a career working with zoo animals was no longer for me.

Injuries Sustained During Marathon Training/Biking to Work and Treatments Required to Remedy

Plantar fasciitis- Ice, Elevation and Ibuprofen 3 x daily. Repeated every 2-3 years when injury undoubtedly recurred because of training like an idiot (or like someone without a chronic, recurring injury they should have been worried about)

ITB syndrome- Stretching iliotibial band while standing in line at the grocery store looking like a weird lady that really needed to pee

Sunburn- No treatment needed. Simply enjoyed the "base tan" produced on my normally pasty/pale complexion

Sunburn induced Age spots on once milky white complexion on "average looks" face- Visited childhood friend, (now a dermatologist) to have age spots chemically burned off of flesh after the surprising, "mole check" that was required and stripping down so childhood friend  could look at every inch of my naked body with a magnifying glass

Loss of big toe nail- Went thong-less for 11 months. AND did not wear flip flops for nearly a year as well! Heh, heh, heh

Shin splints- see treatment for plantar fasciitis

Stress fracture & Morton's neuroma in foot- Surgical removal of nerve (that eventually grows back). Had to wear one of those stupid shoe things that wound up stinking big-time

Getting ass grabbed by local pervert while riding to work- No serious injury sustained. Late for work, broken headphones and post traumatic stress that makes me think everyone is a potential, ass-grabby pervert

Teenage boy yelling, "FAT ASS!!!" from car driving past me while jogging- Quiet humiliation and sad realization that I may always have a kinda fat ass, despite all the running. Treatment readily found in any type of bottle available in the house

Injuries Sustained from Large, Dangerous or Venomous Animals During 10 Years Working at a Zoo and Treatments Required to Remedy

Scrapes and Embarrassment- This occurred while walking past a "tame" adult Ostrich while on my way to retrieve a pacifier dropped into the front of the Ostrich exhibit (Why the hell a parent would want that pacifier- that may or may not have been sitting in ostrich poo- to put back in the mouth of their baby? I have no fucking idea). The ostrich decided to kick me and my sympathetic nervous system decided to jump into the nearest bush, causing scratches, much to the delight of the child waiting at the front of the exhibit with his parents, causing the subsequent embarrassment

Allergies- Sneezing. Kept a dozen Kleenix around in all pockets of zoo-issue cargo pants for six weeks. Had to remove disintegrated Kleenix parts from "clean" laundry for about eight weeks

Bruises- To legs while restraining live animals that don't want blood taken from them via a very large needle. Also, to ego when unable to restrain pig, peacock, squirrel monkey successfully for veterinarian

Boredom- Again, not a real injury but certainly a hazard on the job if it is your job to wait for the 100 year old tortoise to finish his antibiotic-laced strawberry

Injuries Sustained While Living with Small, Dangerous Children and/or Babies and Humiliation Morally Questionable Treatments Required to Remedy

Bruises- Sustained from bites when baby/child discovers that they have teeth and/or can use teeth to piss you off. Treated with Benadryl (ensured child was asleep quickly and so was able to get at least three drinks into me after kid's bedtime)

Sleep deprivation- Causes low patience and consistent poor decision making in regards to personal hygiene and fashion. This condition is chronic, lasting for years. It is also irreversible as far as I can tell

Torn Rotator Cuff- Sustained after lifting big-ass baby in and out of crib for 1 year. Surgery required for repair. And lots of drugs. Lots and lots of drugs

Serious Constipation Due to Overuse of Pain Pills After Shoulder Surgery- Layed on floor of friend's cabin where I went "to get a break from it all" while trying to read directions on enema package. Did not enjoy the weekend at all

Emergency C-Section to Remove Giant, Stuck Baby #1- All hopped up on sweet-ass epidural and stuff so don't really remember

Scheduled C-Section to Remove Giant Baby #2- Totally remember this because it TOTALLY SUCKED getting an epidural sans "sweet-ass" drugs to make me not care that they were stabbing me over and over again in my back

Conclusion
It is obvious that the physical tolls and risks of being near, working with and/or birthing children far outweigh any other activity that I have ever participated in. 

Not so obvious, though still true, having a two year old climb into our bed at 7 am saying, "Cockadoodle-doo, Mommy!" while gently prying one of my eyelids open with her fat thumbs is a benefit that far outweighs that of any job I've had or marathon I've ever run.

However, the emotional toll of being near, working with and/or birthing children has yet to be determined and is likely to result in irreparable, psychological damage.

Is that all there is?

So...I guess I've decided to write a blog because that's what sort of crazy-ish people with a reasonable ability to construct a sentence (run-on or not) do these days. 
Plus, I'm hoping that this will help me control the internal monologue that is constantly running in my head like that unnecessary Seinfeld laugh track. 

*Note: back in the olden times I would have referred to my internal monologue as, "the voices in my head" but that's not PC anymore. Like calling stupid people "retarded". Or calling retarded people retarded. Not cool. Just don't call retarded people anything, ok? You should know better. Just don't look at them, like everyone else does. Or doesn't. Whatever. Don't be so picky. Please see my note below regarding grammar.

But what do I have to say that is unique?
What hasn't been said yet?

Well, I am here to tell you what makes me unique.
In just one minute.

Here it is....

And...Go!

Ok, I got nothing.

I just realized that this is not at all a problem for me because I've read what's out there and what I've found are a bunch of nut jobs.
Fair enough, there are some really good ones out there like the awesomely goofy, Jenny Lawson and that crafty (and by "crafty", I mean, shifty-eyed and not likely trustworthy), Lady Goats but the internet seems to be hemorhaging whackadoodles for the most part. I figure it's time I, the voice of reason (...able-ness), stepped in.

Wait. Just thought of something.

Here is a list of what you will not find on this blog:

• Heart warming stories about my adoring husband

• Heart warming stories about my adorable children

• Heart warming stories about my idiotic dog

• Cute pictures of my husband/kids/stupid dog

• Crazy-ass polar political views/news/rants

• Showing thankfulness to God for anything

• How to make shit

• How to cook anything

• How to not drink a lot of Vodka

• Belly-aching about my "post baby body" or my "weight loss journey". I mean, barf. Who needs that kind of shit?

• Good grammar

Here is a list of what you will find on this blog:

• Frustrating stories about my annoying husband

• Blood pressure elevating stories about my "spirited" (and often annoying) children

• Occasional stories proving how fucking stupid my dog really is

• Cussing. There will be lots of cuss words

• Possibly pictures of interesting things that one can find in my town-that-used-to-be-rural-ish-till-we-gots-the-freeway (I only say this because one time I was jogging and came across an adult American Buffalo in my neighbor's backyard and was able to snap a picture. How cool is that? And no, it did not wander into the backyard, and no, I do not live in 1800s Wyoming nor current day Yellowstone Park. The buffalo was a family pet and we live in a town that's really a suburb of Phoenix)

• Crazy-ass rants about really trivial matters

• No mention of God, probably. Unless I'm cussing, of course (see above)

• How to hire kinda good looking in a Vin Diesel meets John C. Reilly but dressed like that "Git 'er done!" Redneck-y comedian kind of way to do the most basic tasks around our house because you're too tired, lazy, or dumb to do any of them yourself

• How to freak out while making dinner, because it's hard for me

• There will probably be mention of booze 

• Booze-related activities that may or may not include sex, falling asleep before sex, not remembering if sex was had the previous night, hang-overs (Future topic: ask me about the Girl Named Sue Triathlon and the drinking events included in this often ignored solo event)

• Weird stuff like: 
• Running
• Going to the gym religiously
• Teaching an indoor cycling class (I do a lot of this kind of shit, seriously)

(No, really. I'm pretty hard-core. You have to be if you want to maintain your weight and still drink heavily several nights a week while watching Breaking Bad marathons and devouring an entire bag of cheap, ripply potato chips from a plastic Tinkerbell bowl)

• Words like, "awesomely"

Well, I think that about sums it up.

Time to pop an Ambien and hope the tall guy gets up when one of the small ones starts crying or something in the middle of the night.

Until next time....