A Rainy Saturday at the Zoo

A couple friends from college were coming into town this weekend and decided to meet up at the zoo (since we all have children). I watched the weather. Knew it was going to rain and nearly freeze. Pleaded with my husband to convince them to just go to lunch instead. But at 10:00 am, I was at the Hogle (Salt Lake) Zoo.

I've never been very much impressed with Salt Lake's zoo. In fact, I feel like "zoo" is actually too strong a word for what is really there, maybe it should be called the "Hogle Animal Exhibition" or something to that effect. They raised the price. It's now $8 per person. Then an extra $1 to take a train ride that is slower than a riding lawn mower ride.

Everytime I go, it seems like there's another animal that died. Last year, somebody dropped a glove into the polar bear's cage and the polar bear tried to eat it and died. Hogle Zoo is so bad that even when they buy a new animal (as they bought an elephant from the Chicago zoo), the animal actually died in transit and they unbelievably lost the elephant's body. How do you lose an elephant's corpse? The monkeys are so old there are signs on their cages stating, "Please don't tap on the glass. This monkey is extremely old and needs its rest." Is Hogle Zoo so horrible that they can only afford to buy animals in their last legs of life? Are they cheaper if they only have a year or two to live?

I suppose I'm biased. I grew up in St. Louis where the zoo is amazing. It's free and it usually takes two full days to see everything. (Hogle Zoo typically takes two hours.) The St. Louis Zoo always has something new. A couple years back, they opened a penguin and puffin house that is kept at 30 degrees year round. I feel for the poor sweating penguins at the Hogle Zoo. I spend a month every summer at home with my parents and take my daughter to the zoo a couple times a week while I'm there. That way, I'm not forced to spend the money to take her to the crappy Hogle Zoo.

Sometimes it's a sacrifice to see old college friends. I hope they realize how much I like them to brave the cold rain and pay $22 to see dying animals. Well, as long as we get to reminisce about college days at lunch afterward, I guess it's worth it.

I'd like to tell the writers to "Stick It" . . .

. . . and give my $7.50 back. My book club went to see the movie "Stick It" last night. It was only showing in one theatre, the new Century on 78th S. and 13th. E., which should have been a big fat red flag. After my writing group adjourned last night, I headed over and waited for the crew to arrive--Amber, Brenda, Christie G., and Christie M, and a neighbor (sorry, I can't remember her name).

We had the theatre to ourselves. We were able to openly mock the movie's mind-numbing dialogue and jokes. For example, one character (she was so bland I don't remember her name) said, "It's not called Gym-Nice-Stics." And what's with the hand phone messaging in order not to talk to each other? And the farting? It's so junior high. At least we didn't have to worry about ruining anyone else's movie experience.

When we walked in, Amber said, "I'm worried that I'm going to see someone's breast tonight." This probably stemmed from several weeks ago after we were helping Deanna (another member of our book club who couldn't make it last night) paint her new house, both Christie and Amber helped me climb a tree in Deanna's front yard and had to nudge me up. Both testifying that they had touched my butt that night. Well, Amber was almost right . . .

The movie's climactic peak was when the gymnasts decided that they could control the outcomes of the meet if they decided only one gymnast would compete on each event, and the others would "scratch" because a certain gymnast was penalized for having her bra strap showing. The rest of the gymnasts, as they were "scratching" each event, yanked out their bra straps defiantly. As we were leaving the theatre shaking our heads dizzily and wondering where our money went, Amber and Brenda cartwheeled across the theatre and the "neighbor" stretched out her bra straps for us all to see. See, we did see some bra last night.

We thought we had had the theatre to ourselves. As we walked out, I looked up into the small alighted window and a guy waved, where he had been watching overhead.

The next morning, as I'm still picking popcorn kernels from my teeth since I didn't have time to waterpik at midnight last night, I'm wondering if the movie was in fact really that stupid or if I simply need to accept that I'm just not a teenager anymore and these movies aren't meant for me. I'll let you know after the next one . . .

Rantings of a crazy bereaved lady

Cemeteries are a place for quiet reflection, reading a book on a blanket spread on the grass near my baby's grave, and crying, even wailing (depending on the day). Not for soccer games.

Last weekend, my husband and I went by the cemetery to leave some flowers. Cars were parked bumper to bumper around the edge of the cemetery. We had to park on the other side and walk over. Kids were playing hopscotch on the headstones, pulling flowers from the sides of graves and yanking pinwheels from the earth. Referee's whistles and shouting parents intensified my anger. Who in their right mind would approve the cemetery for soccer games? Are there really people that insensitive in the world?

I left shaking, angry as hell, and couldn't get the image of children catapulting themselves off the tops of headstones out of my head. When I went back to the cemetery on Wednesday (the day my daughter Bianca and I allotted to have a quiet, pensive picnic at my baby's grave, eating chicken nuggets and a Frosty from Wendy's), something was missing--a stuffed duck we'd brought over at Easter--and a pinwheel was broken in two lying near Miranda's grave.

I marched over to the Herriman City Building and filed a formal complaint. They took my name and phone number and seemed to simply forget. My phone did not ring.

So last night, we went to a church party where we sat at a table with a member of the Herriman City Council and his wife and Salt Lake Tribune columnist Robert Kirby. I probably wouldn't have brought it up, but my husband asked the city council member, "So, how long are they going to be having soccer games at the cemetery?" To which he promptly replied callously, "Until we start burying people over there." My head went red. I spit across the table, "That is the most insensitive and disrespectful thing I've ever heard. You have children playing on headstones and cars parked all the way across the cemetery and around the corner, and you think that's a decent use of this piece of land?" I don't remember exactly what I said, but it went on and on until everyone at the table hushed. Even Robert Kirby went scurrying away to get away from the crazy bereaved lady.

I couldn't take a drink of my lemonade, my hand was shaking uncontrollably. Nobody dared talk to each other. We all concentrated on our food and the Irish dancers tapping their shoes gleefully nearby. I lamented all night over the fact that I can't properly function in a social setting anymore. If I keep this up, we'll undoubtedly be sitting alone at future social functions.

But this isn't over yet. My next plan of action? A letter to the editor, of the local paper, then maybe a bigger paper. And I'm thinking about what comes after that. You may think there's nothing worse than a crazy bereaved lady, but you're wrong: it's a crazy bereaved lady with an agenda.

UPDATE: I got the assignment to write an editorial on this topic for the Herriman Herald. I wrote a scathing editorial and turned it in on Thursday, then found out on Saturday that this weekend was the last shift of games. The cemetery won't ever been considered for sporting events again. The city council member, from the church party, was patrolling the cars and watching the cemetery to make sure no kids were playing near the headstones. I thanked him with a huge knot in my stomach, thinking of that article with my name on it that is coming out this week. Ahhh, at least I accomplished my goal, right? And perhaps I made just a couple enemies along the way. Sometimes you pay a price to get what you want.

Jogging

I started jogging on Saturday. Usually, I start early-morning jogs at the beginning of April, when the sun creeps over the mountains a little earlier each morning. This year, however, I was dragging my feet. Waiting another day each morning. I didnt have a triple A battery for my MP3 player. I needed some new running shoes (as my old ones had literally worn through the sole).

Finally, I spent some extra money. I bought a new pair of running shorts and a tank top. See, I have myself figured out. I've always been a little cheap (yes, I admit it) so if I invest any money in something, it's a big enough motivator to get me doing it. I know this is how I work. I trick myself into spending the money when I'm not having to drag my heavy feet out of my warm, comfortable bed, complete with 600-thread-count sheets, at 6 am.

So, I did it on Saturday. I lied in bed for almost an hour before. But then I jumped up, put on my new running outfit, turned on my MP3 player, and ran out the door.

I start out each year by running a little, walking a little, running a little, you get the picture. That way my chest and head don't explode by the end of the first half hour. And it always feels so good. (Well, about a half hour after I've swallowed three Extra Strength Tylenol and had my strawberry-banana shake.)

I love though how when you are out in the morning exercising, you're thrown into an elite group of other die-hard, early-morning exercisers--bikers, Olympic-paced walkers, other runners. I think several years ago, even the deer thought I was one of them. (They never ran off skittishly as I went by, as they've been known to do. Unfortunately, the neighborhood isn't as deer friendly as it used to be. Not with all the million-dollar houses being built up the mountain.) When you're up early exercising, the other exercisers are friendly in a way that they're not several hours after the sun's been up. I like being a part of that group.

It's no mystery why I've been dragging my feet this year. The last time I'd awoken early to jog was the morning I was in my life-altering car accident. I'd stopped jogging immediately, as my ribs and a knee had been roughed up and I was planning a funeral for my daughter. Yes, starting my jogging this year signified the end of something. Or was it the beginning of something? Moving on. As much as I don't want to, I guess I have to live on--and jog on.

My Writing Group

I joined a writing group several weeks ago. We meet at a local Barnes & Noble every other week. The group consists of three men and one woman, all of which are at least 15 years older than I am.

They're very serious writers. Most have written several manuscripts and they come to group very serious, wanting to improve their work. That's why I joined. I need some major help and they're very helpful and supportive.

My friend Christie came with me for the first time several weeks ago, got me settled, then took her leave. She's planning to write a book, but hasn't started on it yet--not until June, after some pressing matters are finished.

Last night, as we're all voraciously reading through each other's work, the man next to me pointed at the travel book section facing toward us and said, "Look." Some person had placed an outdoor Kama Sutra book (complete with nude cover) out toward us and had run off giggling. "It was some woman, not a teenager." I glanced up at the book and stifled a laugh. "Looks like she was in her early 20s." I shrugged, "That person could probably use a hobby. Maybe we should see if she wants to pick up writing." I dismissed it, continued reading, wanting to catch up to where the rest of the group is, to participate in the discussion.

At quarter after nine, we broke up to go home when I saw two of my good friends, Christie (who knew my writing group from the first meeting) and Brenda, both of which are in my book club. They're giggling, and running around like kids. I realize immediately who put the Kama Sutra book out for us all to see. Brenda--my wild, fun, cute, crazy friend Brenda, who is actually 32.

I thanked the group for an exhilerating discussion, shaking my head that these serious writers know that it was my friends who were tittering over a Kama Sutra book. Oh, will I ever be mature enough to be a serious writer? Probably not. It's hard to get older, but it's nice to have some friends who keep me young and laughing.

My Night with the Liberals

I'm not a political person. Never have been. Usually, when people start talking about politics, I shut down pretty quickly, staring at the wall or find something new to snack on. Anything to drown out the noise of political talk.

But last night, I spent an interesting, extremely exhilerating evening with the ACLU. My friend Dani was hired to play the piano for the talent show. Since I had a small (and I mean minute) influence on her career, she summoned me to come along as her page-turner. A free dinner? A night in Park City? Sure. We drove to Park City (unfortunately, the drive there was a bit twisty and we had to pull off to the side of the road once). We arrived at the Canyons several minutes early. Ryan, the planner of the event, hopped into my X3, not seeing Dani's energy drink in the cupholder, and flipped his knee up, spilling it all over my dash, while I cringed and urged them out, so I could clean up before it became a sticky mess. I then let the valet take my car.

The talent show was fun. I was most entertained by Ryan's performances. He was a drama queen, and sang a song I still (a day later) cannot will from my head, You can't take the Color out of Colorado. Oh, the song was great. Some of my favorite lines are as follows: You can't take the Sissy out of Mississippi, he's there and he's going to stay. You can't kick our asses out of Massachusetts, You can't run the homos out of Oklahoma. You can't have NYC without Queens. Take the orgi out of Georgia, if you must. You can try to take the KY out of Kentucky. It was so funny! Ryan, you were awesome!

I also liked Eric's and Debbie's performances. Although Debbie reminded me a bit of Chandler's (dad) singing "It's Raining Men" in one of the classic Friends episodes. But the highlight was definitely the beat poetry recitation and singing Bob Marley. It rocked. I had so much fun.

I don't necessarily agree with the everything the ACLU stands for, but they know how to have their fun. And politics are a lot more fun when they come in the form of a song!