The Best Animal in the Zoo

Mirrored from my xanga site, here. It has pictures which I would put here if I could figure out how to do that, or change the banner, design, etc... I suck


“Do we have to go Mama? The zoo's boring,” my daughter whined when I informed her of our plans for the day.

“It'll be fun,” I told her remembering a trip to the zoo with my mom and friends, Madonna and Michael Jackson serenading the animals with the boom box we carried.

They went grudgingly, entirely too cool for our bunch. Until they discovered the best animal at the zoo, pre-teen boys.

"That boy back there liked us Mama! His Mama was saying that was a red fox and he went on and on about how it was half panda or something, trying to impress us. And he looked right at me."

"I think he was looking at me," her friend replied. "And he keeps flinging his hair. JUST LIKE JESSE."

"He's sooooooooooo cute," they squealed.

"I'm sure he thought all of you were cute," I told them, hoping they'd hush, for just a moment.

I searched with my eyes around the scores of strollers clogging the walkway for little boys. I'd taken to counting them out 1 through 9 at least 60 times an hour after finding the 13 year old, brother of squealing girl three, chasing the peacock that roams free throughout the zoo and trying to climb in the elephant's enclosure.

"Stay by me. No running ahead. Find your buddy," I hollered until my voice was hoarse.

"Where'd he go?" The girls asked, having lost track of their prey while relating his every perfectly divine quality to me.

And like animals stampeding, they followed.

"Boys don't like to be chased," I called after them, thinking about my own pre-teen boy and his pre-teen friends. They are more horrified by girl's stares than anything else.

But considering, that in the 7th grade, my 12 year old stalker in the making self, forced my mother to drive by Bryan Mitchell's house at least once a day and cried copious tears and listened to Aerosmith's Angel 750 times when he didn't even speak to me at the Valentine's Dance, I didn't have much room to talk.

So I let them lead the way. At the next exhibit, they jostled one another around, vying for the coveted spot next to him in front of the boa constrictor. By the fifth exhibit, he'd blocked himself between his parents, ignoring them with a look of abject horror in his eyes.

“I think he might be cuter than Chase,” one of the girl's said. Chase being the A list boy, at their school, since THIRD grade. “And maybe even Jesse.” Jesse McCartney, who is the CUTEST famous person EVER, at least according to them.

“No one's cuter than Chase or Jesse,” Georgie mulled. “He can be number three. We need to make up a name for him.”

“How about Jeff,” one of the girls suggested.

“My first boyfriend was named Jeff,” I informed them, trying to hear over the boys bird calls.

“Make that Josh,” my daughter replied.

Two hours later, squeezed together in the zoo's train seat, I snapped a picture for them to fawn over. Hustling everyone to the car as soon as it was over.

They positioned themselves at the windows, rolling them down and hanging out as far as I would allow, the perfect music blasting from the radio.

“Bye cute tall boy with the blond hair,” one of them screeched as they all waved, flinging themselves back inside in a fit of giggles.

“His hair was brown dummy,” a voice chided. And I smiled.

“Mama, that was the best zoo trip EVER.”

Life Goes On

The Bake Sale Nazi is on a rampage and my mother-in-law is dying.

The neighbor tells me her children, "cried from Biloxi to Hattiesburg. They didn't understand why we couldn't stay. They ran from room to room touching the two by fours. This is my room. This is Mama's."

I never understood what people meant by life goes on. I'd heard it said by many people, in many ways.

"I lost my job but life goes on. I've got to keep going and not look back."

"The dog got run over by a tractor. Hunting season is comin' up soon. Better get me a new dog. Life goes on, ya know."

"My mother is dying. Isn't it funny how life goes on?"

The sun keeps shining, the children keep playing, the deadlines don't go away, the Bake Sale Nazi insists you be at the Bake Sale the entire 12 hours that it is going on.

Your children must go to school. You must make money to pay the rent. You have to get out of bed.

"Call me tonight," she calls out to me as her car rolls by in the carpool line. "You need to add the times we need help to the Bake Sale reminder handout."

"Could she make it more difficult," I say under my breath. I want to scream, "They can bring booger muffins for all I care." But I don't, because it is not her fault.

"Park over there, Daddy!" I hear her yell from 6 cars back. Daddy is half deaf, pointing the munchkin to the bathroom when she asks for an apple, the first time I went over to discuss the bake sale.

Daddy helps her into her wheelchair, she leans so far forward, as he pushes her towards me at my post, that I hope she doesn't fall out in the middle of the carpool lane.

"That bake sale is in one week," she tells me, pointing her finger, somewhere around my upper thigh. "And I haven't heard a thing from you."

I listen, committing to nothing.

"Gotta love the bake sale lady. She sure has definite ideas." The school secretary informed me a week earlier.

"We need signage, new tablecloths. Fred's has some cute ones that are cheap. Labels for the baked goods. You'll probably have to be there all day Wednesday as well to receive the stuff."

I know what she meant now.

How do I tell her that explaining, why the man on the bicycle is wearing a neon orange shirt and pants, with his gut hanging out in between, feels like too much right now.

Three school parties and a beginner violin concert on Friday.

A bake sale on Thursday.

Life goes on and my mother-in-law is dying.

Thanks for the memories!

This came from Writes For Chocolate ... Let's see how creative y'all are!

Please post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL MEMORY OF YOU AND ME. It can be anything you want–good or bad–BUT IT HAS TO BE FAKE. When you’re finished, post this paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.

O Christmas Tree

The Fraser Fir takes up half the room. Branches hang over the love seat, smacking me in the face if I move in the wrong direction.

"How are we supposed to get to the table, Mama?" The children ask me.

"Just squeeze right in between the couch and the love seat there." I tell them, wondering how my fat ass will fit through.

"This tree is obscene," my friend comments the first time she sees it. "Has Bill lost his mind?"

"Has he ever had it?" I reply, gazing at the monster. "18 HUNDRED lights, if you count the swag on the window."

"Dear God," she says.

My husband tells me about a little boy, in a worn out blue jacket and patched jeans, gazing at trees: Fraser, Eastern Red Cedar, Leland Cypress, Douglas Fir. He can't decide.

He walks to and fro between them, hand running along each one, feeling the sharp poke of the needles against his palm. He wants the BIGGEST one, the one that will reach the ceiling and fill up the empty corners of his home.

"Can we have this one Mama? Please!! This one!!" He asks, tugging at her jacket with small hands and pointing to the biggest one on the lot.

"Not this time, Billy." She knows the small packet of bills in her purse must last for 23 more days.

23 more days to have no space to move in the living room.

552 hours for the neighbors to wonder what the hell we were thinking.

33120 minutes to heal a grown man's heart.