April 25, 2006

Lions And Other Animals

I didn’t care much about exotic animals and how they lived before I went to Africa. Going to the zoo was a chore, not an adventure. The boys were always bringing home books and telling me random facts about various critters that I heard and promptly forgot. It was Finn who ruined the allure of my leopard print Snugglebutt pajamas by identifying them as a jaguar print, which was not nearly as sexy.

Once I got to Kenya and began driving observing the wildlife in its natural habitat, learning about animals became much more exciting. For example, on one game drive we came upon a group of lions lazing about. Even to me, it was obvious that they had eaten recently. They could hardly keep their eyes open.

Our guide told us that in the lion world, the lionesses do all the hunting. After they kill the prey, the men muscle in and eat until they are full. Only then do the ladies get to eat what is left. This fact made an impression on me. Our home is not so different from the Serengeti in this regard.

When it comes to providing food for my family, I am much like a lioness. I go to Publix and purchase the ingredients.

I prepare them, while also watching the news, helping with homework, administering first aid, and mediating fights.

When dinner is served my three cubs pounce. Often I have to restrain them from gobbling everything up until a blessing is said.

If I don’t hustle to the table on Taco Night, I am left to graze upon the sparse remnants of the meal.

Sometimes I just have to fix myself a bowl of cereal instead. I sympathize with the plight of the hardworking lionesses in Kenya.

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

Since the tragic death of the hermit crabs I have added another Animal to this household, and it cleans messes instead of making them.

Yes, I purchased the purple Dyson Animal, and I am a satisfied customer. Here is proof of the vacuum’s remarkable capabilities. I performed a test that any nitwit could think up. First, while Bill lay on the sofa laughing at my enthusiasm, I vacuumed the den rug thoroughly with my old Hoover Wind Tunnel.

(This is the miniskirt that in an extreme lapse of judgment, I wore to my 20th high school reunion. Bad fashion choice. My little sister later helped me clean out my closet, and told me not to wear it out of the house; thus I wear it only around the house when doing things like making tacos or vacuuming.)

Then the boys gathered around and helped me assemble the Animal, which was quite easy.

The boys were begging to use the Animal first, but after spending that kind of money I wasn’t about to cede the virginal scouring of the rug to them. I vacuumed the den with the Dyson, and then we all gathered around to inspect the contents of the dirt chamber. Look what 100,000 G of centrifugal force sucked out of my “clean” rug:

Whoa! Seeing all that dust and dirt was so satisfying that I immediately vacuumed the rest of the house, with equally stellar results.

The Animal comes with about eight different attachments, which were pretty intimidating. I’ve never been one to sit down with an instruction manual and work out how to insert part A into part B. Fortunately, Porter had an innate feel for the workings of the Dyson, and soon had it in full stairway mode.

Those giraffe skin stairs were spotless when he was done. (Spotless– ha ha ha!! That’s the kind of joke you make when you return from Africa.)

April 24, 2006

Lessons for Angelina

Angelina Jolie and I have a lot in common. She’s not the only Africa-loving tattooed lady around. However, I’ve done a much better job than Angelina has at keeping my private life exactly that– private. Angelina draws attention wherever she goes, but I do the exact same things she does in relative obscurity. Perhaps Angelina can learn from me.

For example, Angelina has drawn lots of attention for the way she has conducted herself in public with past lovers. Bill and I are, as Beyonce would say, “Crazy in Love,” but we don’t make it a habit to slurp on each other every time we hit a baseball game or PTA Open House. Angelina and Billy Bob, however, did not show the same restraint:

Bill and I prefer more intimate, less outrageous displays of affection:

Any male will kiss you in front of millions of people. It takes a special man to help you clean the kitchen during the commercials of the American Idol finale. This illustrates true love in its most basic form.

Bill and I found an additional, seductive way of expressing our committment to each other. We visited Acme Tattoo in an episode that I’m pretty sure all of you know by now. (Click the episode link if you don’t.) Angelina and I both know that tattoos can be fun and sexy.

Perhaps it’s Angelina’s tendency to take things to the extreme that gets her private bits broadcast all over the world. I understand the craving for a cross tattoo near your pelvis better than most women. But there’s a difference in this:

And this:

My theory is that it’s been easier for photographers to get a clear shot of Angelina’s cross than it is to photograph mine, so they go for the easy money picture. Next time she’s in a tattoo parlor, she should remember to scale down her design.

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We have other similarities. Angelina and I share a love of flying. Here’s Angelina:

And here I am. They wouldn’t let me wear the earphones. That was ok because I don’t speak Swahili anyway.

Sometimes Angelina flies commercial, and she inevitably attracts a crowd of fans and press. Again, she could take some lessons from me here. Traveling with Brad
Pitt, a toddler with a mohawk, and a Somali baby does not help you
blend in. See how you notice them immediately?

She could try my trick. When I have to fly commercial, I take special care
to completely disguise my appearance so that other passengers are not distracted
by my existence. I bet you can’t even tell I’m on the plane.

I sure fooled the paparazzi. Not a single one greeted me when I got off the plane. Mission accomplished.

When traveling in Africa, it can be hard to stay clean, and both Angelina and I favor scarves as a way to keep our luxurious locks protected from the harsh African sun while we attend to more pressing matters. Angelina even wore hers on national TV.

Ann Curry wasn’t able to join me in Africa. But my hair was shielded from damage from the sun, and that’s the point.

Fans routinely hound Angelina. Just look at these people waiting to get a glimpse of her:

The same thing happened to me in Kenya. All the Kenyan schoolchildren who keep up with my blog headed out to the airport and waved enthusiastically. It’s great to know the Tiny Kingdom reaches an audience on the other side of the world!

Angelina happily signs autographs for her fans.

Sometimes I have to sign a few autographs and pose for pictures,
just like Angelina. I keep a Sharpie on hand just in case anyone
needs me to sign a photo but forgot to bring a pen.

Both Angelina and I have posed provocatively for fashion spreads, and we both favor shots taken in the bathtub. You just get a better sense of the real person that way, as you can see. Angelina’s shot says, “Should I tattoo Brad’s face on my right shoulder blade? Or my butt cheek? Those are the only spaces I have left.”

My photo says, “Crap– I finally get away from the kids to take a bath, and I got soap in my eyes. This sucks.”

Again, notice my restraint compared to Angelina’s. Sure, I would have liked to show my butt crack in my photo, but that crack is not for your viewing pleasure. Had Angelina exercised a little restraint in her pose, perhaps she would not have hundreds of journalists risking being eaten by lions just to be near her when she gives birth.

While Angelina is huddled up in Namibia hiding from the world, perhaps she should consider toning things down a little in the future. If she starts acting more like me, she’ll soon be able to shop at her local Publix in obscurity. And that’s a goal worth striving for.

______________________________________

Frey Clauses:
1. I don’t really love to fly. I barfed right after we took off, shortly after this picture was taken.

2. Mainly I use the Sharpie to write my children’s names on things. Rarely do I use it to sign anything other than a check.

3. I didn’t really want to show you my butt. That’s why I showed you Angelina’s.

4. I am on a first name basis with my favorite checker at Publix, so I’m not completely obscure. However, she doesn’t call the newspaper when I come in for tampons and Go-Gurt.

Bill Catches Up On Celebrity Gossip

Bill and I went to a wedding out of town last weekend. One of his oldest high school friends was getting married. The drive over gave us plenty of time to talk. After we’d hashed out our finances and discussed the boys, it was time to prepare ourselves for the inevitable small talk that would come up.

For my benefit, we went over all his friends’ wives names, where they lived and worked, the approximate number of children they had, and any exciting life events that had transpired since we’d last seen them. I was ready to converse with anyone who came my way.

Then Bill turned the conversation in an unexpected direction.

“I haven’t heard anything about Madonna lately,” Bill said. “What’s she up to? Does she have any kids?”

I had to laugh. Bill is aware that we have troops in Iraq, and he can name the President. Otherwise, if you aren’t in Bicycling or Triathlon magazines and don’t play football, baseball or golf, he’s not likely to have heard of you.

Fortunately, I was able to help him out.

“Actually, she has a new album out, is about to start a tour, and she has two kids, a girl who’s Finn’s age and a boy named Rocco,” I said.

“Rocco? What the hell kind of name is that?” he asked.

“That’s the thing now,” I told him. “Celebrities give their babies crazy names like ‘Apple.’ Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes just had a baby and named her ‘Suri’ and they said that it means ‘princess’ in Hebrew, but the Israelis said it didn’t. The Japanese came along and said that in their language, ‘Suri’ means ‘pickpocket.’”

Bill shook his head. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

A few miles later, he spoke up again.

“Remember that girl who was married to Brad Pitt?”

I started giggling while he struggled to recall her name.

“You know, she was on a show with a lot of other people, and they drank lots of coffee?” He started snapping his fingers, trying to come up with her name.

I put him out of his misery. “Jennifer Aniston,” I supplied helpfully.

“Yeah! That’s it. What’s she been doing?”

“She’s trying to hit it big in movies, and she’s dating the taller wedding crasher, ” I said.

“That movie was hilarious,” Bill said thoughtfully. “Now, what about Brad Pitt? Did I see that he got himself a new woman?”

I stared at him. He was serious.

Bill doesn’t lead a sheltered life. He goes to the grocery store at least once a week, where Star and The National Enquirer and People are prominently displayed. He spends time in our bedroom, where my Us Weekly often sits on the bedside table until I’ve finished it. Sometimes he walks in the kitchen while I’m cooking dinner and watching Access Hollywood.

I decided to see how much he’d inadvertently soaked up about Brad and Angelina, considering that they have probably been on four billion magazine covers in the last year. Surely the Brangelina phenomenon has been absorbed by even those people who don’t go out of their way to keep up with such things.

“Yes, he has a new woman,” I said.

“Who?” he asked.

“I’ll let you guess,” I said. “I’ll give you a hint: they’ve been all over the news, the papers and every form of media over the last twelve months. Think hard. I know you can figure it out.”

“Do I know her name?” Bill asked me.

“Unless you’re a moron,” I replied.

He drove some more, furrowing his brow.

“I got it!” he yelled after a couple of minutes.

“Give it to me,” I said skeptically.

“It’s that witchy girl with the tattoos who wore the blood around her neck and she did it in the limo with the guy from Sling Blade,” he said triumphantly.

“I’ll give you credit for that answer,” I said, “but honey, you should know that her name is Angelina Jolie.”

Unfortunately, I forgot to tell him that Brad and Angelina are expecting a baby. He learned that juicy bit of information at the reception. He was even more interested to hear that she is apparently having her baby in Africa.

“Does she have any idea what the toilets are like over there?” he asked me. “I can’t imagine having a baby under those conditions.”

“I think she’s got it under control, honey, but it’s sweet of you to care,” I told him.

That man never ceases to amaze me.

April 21, 2006

Hail Yeah!

Weather-wise we had quite an exciting afternoon yesterday. I had just dropped the art carpool off at the Community Education building when the tornado sirens, which are located about two feet away, started blaring. The building has an important sounding name, but it’s rickety and looks like a good wind could topple it over, so I went inside to see what the class’s tornado safety procedures were. The art teacher stared at me, seemingly oblivious to the deafening sound and the darkening sky. She was all artsy-fartsy with no cares at all, and I was all legal-beagle and extremely weather-phobic. I could tell at once that our tornado philosophies were contradictory so I collected my carpool and drove to Marathon Mom’s house to check the location of the storm. Once the funnel cloud had passed, I drove home, dropping off budding artists on the way.

Then the real fun began. I heard a clattering outside and saw hailstones falling in a thick shower. I called the boys to watch and they stuck a plastic bowl outside to collect the hail. They had to do it quickly, though, because there was so much lightening. The storm was so fierce that even our poor excuse for a dog, who usually jumps at any chance to run away, refused to venture into the storm. I was a little disappointed. He’s always been a pain in the ass, but he’s never been a coward before.

The storm eased up a little, so we took to the highway to deliver Finn to his drum lessons. We hadn’t been in the van for five minutes before I realized that the roads were flooding and cars were sliding off the road. We took the first exit and headed back home.

The hail started again, but this time it was only pea sized, and that was small potatoes compared to what we had seen before. The boys were less impressed, but they gazed at it anyway, and had a contest in which they tried to hit pieces of hail with their pee before the ice melted away completely.

The storms are supposed to start up again this afternoon. I am praying that they come sooner rather than later, because today is the school’s annual Booster Bash. Go ahead– call me a bad mom. I deserve it. I was born without the school carnival appreciation gene. I hate the Booster Bash almost as much as I hate the circus. If thunder and lightening don’t come soon, I’ll be forced to head to school and watch the boys try to throw a ball through a hoop to try to win a plastic man attached to a plastic parachute, and get their faces painted to look as though they’ve suffered a horrific head injury. Then I’ll have to buy them ice cream so that their energy levels will peak just about the time my in-laws get to town for some family togetherness.

Come on, rain– save me!

April 17, 2006

African Adventures: Let’s Launder!

In the weeks before I left home, trying to get to Africa was so much damn work that I didn’t have time to think about how it would be once I actually got there. I was planning the boys’ schedules, arranging babysitters, getting my shots and trying to make sure I had enough medicines to combat blisters, hangnails, rashes, diarrhea, constipation, vomiting, migraines, excessive ear wax, the loss of a dental crown, and any other medical mishap I could imagine.

It wasn’t until a couple of days before we left that I could fully concentrate on the clothes I needed to take. I called my mother’s best friend, June, to ask for fashion advice. She was going on the trip, too, and she and her husband had been to Africa with my parents several times in the past.

“They do laundry at these camps in Africa,” June said, “so although you need several days’ worth of clothes, you can plan on having some things washed while you’re there.”

When I heard about this unexpected perk of the safari, I gasped in delight. The laundry at our house never ends, and I’ve pretty much completely given up the folding and putting away part of the process. Having someone else do my laundry would be a huge treat. That was the last thing I had expected on the Dark Continent.

Then I realized that I would be travelling with my dad and his friends and all the money and experience that comes with several extra decades of successful careers and wise investments. I’d heard my mom and June tell stories about their adventures around the world. They always involved ritzy places and lots of staff.

So while it had never occurred to me that you could find luxurious spots in Kenya or Tanzania, the comment about the laundry made me realize that my dad and his friends wouldn’t consider traveling there without the promise of soft beds and gourmet food. My mom couldn’t last more than a couple of days without getting a massage, and she had helped plan the itinerary. Perhaps there’d even be pampering.

I’m sure you’ve already read about the toilet situation on our trip, so you can see that it was a good thing that I had no unrealistic expectations about our accommodations while we were in the bush. I’ll admit, however, that I was extremely excited about the promise of laundering performed by others.

The first camp we visited had no electricity or running water. If you wanted a shower, you told the owners, who had some Masai warriors heat up some water and pour it into a bucket on top of your tent, like so:

There was a string inside the tent that you pulled to release the water so you could soap up and rinse off. It was an exercise in futility, however, as the water smelled just like the fire it had been heated on. It wasn’t the kind of shower that left you feeling invigorated and fresh. When I was done I felt jumpy and I smelled freshly roasted.

This was the same camp where my potty came with my very own shovel and bucket of ash:

Getting myself clean appeared to be impossible here, so I decided against asking for laundering services at this stop.

I fared better at the next camp. We arrived and were delighted to find hot water available for three hours in the morning and three hours at night with no Masai warriors required. Our tents had solar lights, which were dim compared to what we were used to, but a big improvement over the pitch black darkness that we’d been dealing with before.

Best of all, there was a woven laundry hamper and a leaflet with assurances that laundry left out one day would be ready the next.

The furnishings were quite reassuring, so I decided to try out the laundry.

As I was filling out the form for my clothes, I read that ladies’ undergarments would not be accepted. Later I learned that African men feel it is beneath their dignity to wash women’s panties. I concluded that they weren’t that different from most American men that I know, except for their spears and red blankets. (They didn’t have any problem washing my dad’s ratty boxers, but whatever.)

The next day I came back from a game drive and had a fantastic surprise. The undergarments that I had carefully washed in a little Bliss Soapy Sap were dry and lemony.

Even better, my elephanty smelling safari clothes showed up right on schedule:

They smelled clean, although I knew they had been washed in water from a river that was filled with hippos. I still don’t know how they accomplished that.

The Ngorongoro Crater Lodge was the fanciest place we stayed, as you could tell by comparing its toilets with the facilities everywhere else. Unfortunately, we reached the Lodge only after a long day of travel on three different planes and an arduous drive up the rim of the Crater. We were exhausted, and the lights at the Lodge were even dimmer than the ones at the previous camp. I didn’t have the energy or desire to root through my nasty duffle bag to decide which of my clothes were the smelliest.

However, when the folks at the Lodge brought us a tray of warm washcloths covered with rose petals so we could freshen up before dinner, I resolved to locate my dirty clothes as fast as possible and take advantage of the laundry service there. I figured it had to be top-notch.

I sat down with my gin and tonic and carefully sorted my clothes and filled out the cleaning slip.

I was totaling up my garments when I happened to read the fine print on the paper. I realize this picture is fuzzy and dim, but I was tired and buzzy at this point, and the room was poorly lit, so this is actually a very realistic representation of the document I was trying to decipher.

(You can click to enlarge although I did not have that luxury.)

Let me translate the sixth bullet point for you: Occasionally hyena and baboon raid the laundry yard

And at the bottom the paper said: The lodge accepts no responsibility whatsoever for guest clothing damaged during cleaning.

I must admit, these clauses made me pause. We were far enough along on our trip that I was familiar with both baboons and hyena, and I wasn’t going to wrestle one for my cheetah bra if it proved enticing.

Here’s a pack of hyena:

Sadly, they weren’t fighting over someone’s cute Zombymom Tshirt or khaki pants. They were focused on a carcass which is too gory to show.

In the end, of course, I decided to take my chances and send off the clothes. When I came back from dinner the next night, I was glad I had. My clothes were waiting for me in a lovely reed basket, wrapped in velvet and accented with a red rose.

Just the way I like them.