Farts Keep Us Together

Game Changers? I think not!

I was holding an egg as the kids were dying them for Easter, and talking about how smooth the shell feels. Acknowledging the color, I thought about an episode of Sex and the City. The episode went something like this; Carrie farts next to Mr. Big, and from shock and embarrassment, she over compensates by acting like a freaking lunatic the rest of the week, obsessing that Big is going to break up with her for farting. In the end of the episode Big shows up at Carrie's where she is painting her kitchen. Big breaks the ice by looking at the paint on the cabinets, and saying, "Eggshell, nice color!" Then they have sex, or some shit. 

I'm not sure which is more annoying, Big's immediate color recognition of egg shell, or Carrie acting like a fucking moron in two ways. First, by thinking Big will dump her for farting, and secondly, for turning into pudding after a week of stress and anguish because he wasn’t answering her phone calls.

I am far away from this early stage in relationships. The idea of having to go through the hurdle of getting to know someone enough to fart in front of them makes me feel like sitting tight. 
My memories might serve me wrong, but I don't remember acting like the moronic lead character in romantic comedies chasing down someone who is mean to them. I remember someone telling me about this book called He's Just Not That Into You. While they were telling me about this groundbreaking information, I looked at them confused saying, "So you need a book to tell you that when a guy doesn't return your phone calls he doesn't like you? Its seems pretty fucking obvious."

The entire charade of not farting around a new mate probably keeps a lot of couples together. I doubt meeting people is hard, but concealing flatulent seems like too much work, especially with age onset lactose intolerance.
Yesterday I went on a jog with the kids in the afternoon. The heat wave in combination with pushing 70 pounds in a double stroller, made the jog especially brutal. Sweating like a pig, and singing songs in my head, I was flattered to be offered booze TWICE by homeless men. The first guy was drinking a bottle of Listerine on the side of a grocery store parking lot, and the second guy, who was a dead ringer for the actor in the Bitter Beer Face commercials, was on a curb by a fire station at the tail end of the run. Given the conditions, I had to decline the offers, but it was good to know I still got it, and I don't have to worry about kids killing my game. It's just this farting thing...

It's easy to say no to a face like this

Imaginary Friends and Time Out

They even entertain me in their sleep

George has too much fun when he goes to time out. He enjoys it so much, he purposely behaves badly, and smiles at me saying, "Time out!" When he does this as I am doing the dishes, I wrangle him from whatever reckless activity he is doing, and plop him in his crib. He laughs at me smiling, and I say, "Your in time out. Don't climb on the table, you could fall off and hurt yourself." Then he sits down chuckling and begins singing a song.
I chuckle to myself, thinking, "Ha ha, George! Now I can get the dishes done without you trying to climb into the sink, or into the dishwasher, or find a dangerous utensil to steal and run away with." In the couple minutes he sits in his crib, I finish the dishes and sweep the floor. Then I look at Kiki and say, "Should we go get your brother?"
She answers, "No. Lets leave him in time out." But then I convince her to run down the hall to his room where we begin our end-of-time-out-talk.
It goes like this, "George, I love you, but you needed a time out because you climbed on top of the table and that is not allowed because you could fall and hurt yourself."
He stands in the crib, with his cheek resting on his hand, looking lovingly at me with sparkling eyes and a big smile on his face.
Kiki was never able to sit in time out isolation in her crib, she would have hyperventilated. Even now, if I mention time out, she immediately drops whatever she is doing and breaks down into a sopping mess of tears repeating, "I don't want to go to time out."
She moves onto another activity, and lately it involves her and her two pals, Pink and Iowa. Pink and Iowa are her imaginary friends. She has had them for a while now, Pink was here first and Iowa came along shortly after. I am bewildered and amazed when she tells me about the adventures her and her friends go on.
Since I am the middle of 5 children, I doubt I had imaginary friends. I was much more likely to imagine myself as an only child. As an adult, my brothers and sisters have filled in the void for real life friends. A lucky coincidence for an introvert.
Now, I meet up with my imaginary friends trolling the internet. I had to stop using Facebook because it is a bit too friendly. I don't need the deep human connection of long diatribes or photo albums, but 140 characters seems plenty enough to satiate any longing for bonds.
I get carried away online, as if trying to be caught. My solitude dissolves through delusions I manifest by reading 140 characters. Like a peeping tom, except I took it a step further by breaking the virtual window and sniffing the pantise in the dresser drawer. My hankerings to go investigate online are urges that come on like the craving of a cigarette.
Peek in the windows of people who belong in the past and speculate; a grand reimmagining.
A time out from my imaginary friends is happily welcome; I have plenty of fun watching Kiki play with her pretend friends, and giving George his I-love-you-but-you-need-a-time-out talk.

I entertain myself when they sleep and I drive around drinking diet coke looking at houses

Morning Hike

George's first haircut.

This morning my sister showed up after 7am to wrangle the family for a hike. We were all in the cars before 8, and headed toward Emerald Bay. My daughter was beside herself from the moment she woke up, and the only person she tolerated was my mother. Everyone fake cried as she started to scream about wearing a sweatshirt, and that made her hysterics elevate to a level I don't like to see. I tried to explain that this type of reaction to her outburst was not effective, but they seemed oblivious to what I was saying. I can understand why, since it is my parenting that led her to this state of spoiled crybaby mania.

Kiki ran to my mom’s bed after she woke up at 7, and my mom and her talked about ducks till we said, “OK, it’s time to leave.” When Kiki heard that we were leaving, and my mom was going to stay in bed, she nearly exploded. My mom, who doesn't step foot out of her bed before 8:30, was forced to go on the hike with us. 

Before we left, my sister was walking her baby around, holding on to her hands and guiding her through the house. Her daughter will turn 1 year old next month. My dad walks up from the coat closet and sees them cruising through the house, and says, “Sophie, you’re a pansy!” Sophie is the eleven month old.

Driving up the narrow mountain road to the hiking trail, my mom lamented on how she didn’t drink a cup of coffee. I felt pangs of distress for her, since she usually does high kicks to the coffee pot in the morning as she sings, “A day without coffee is like a day without sun.” I had four cups by then, so could only commiserate in distress by talking about how challenging it is for me to not read my phone while driving on the winding road.

On the phone!

We hiked up the mountain, taking in the view, and seeing a rushing waterfall. My mom and Kiki held up the tail. Hand in hand they walked and talked as they examined every bush, tree, and rock along the way. I worried as my mom held onto Kiki, who sometimes dangled from my mom like a My Buddy Doll, but my mom seemed to maneuver up the steep rocks without fear that they would slide into the rocky ravine.

My mom and dad returned from Vietnam last week, and they distributed our gifts after the hike. The kids scored a bounty, and my sister and I were thrilled with our elephant pants. When we scuttled off to happy hour, we all geared up in our Vietnam souvenirs.

She wears Birkenstocks. Even before they were cool (again).

For not napping, I was amazed at how the kids behaved at the restaurant. It is a new place by the casinos, and the loud atmosphere, coupled with French fries and an iPad, allowed our hour of libations to go rather smoothly.

Nice mullet, bro!

When we came home, George was spent. He was crying from a hair on his finger, and after my memory lapse on George’s hair phobia ended, I removed the hair from his finger tip. He composed himself and then resumed his business, which involves following my mom’s senior dog around who growls and snaps at him.

When I picked George up to take him to bed, we did a wave to all the family at the table. My dad was walking in the kitchen and kissed George on the head saying, “I love you, you little shit.”

I walked him upstairs laughing and thinking to myself, “It's amazing we have any self esteem at all."

Working those 10 year old Barbazon modeling ambitions

The Perfect Dinner Companion

I came to Tahoe this afternoon. After unloading the car and refueling the kids' bellies, we went to the pool. Kiki was swimming around in the water, and then had a look of panic saying, "I have to go to the bathroom." 

This could only mean number two, as she is a huge proponent for peeing in pools, and often times, she likes to make a loud announcement AFTER she has emptied her bladder.

We raced to the toilet, and the freezing cold air made the run especially invigorating. I plopped her on the toilet after peeling the wet bathing suit from her skin. The hardest part about taking her to the bathroom is making sure that George doesn't try to put his mouth on anything disgusting, or stick his hand in the tiny garbage can next to the toilet.

Today, he was easily corralled at the door lock, distracted by repeatedly attempting to unlock. He ran over to the toilet one time, and I blocked him using some of my JV basketball skills. He threw his head over my hip, and looked in the toilet bowl, saying enthusiastically, "Chocolate!"

I said, "No way George! Not chocolate!" Squashing any ideas that might pop into his head. He walked back over to the door lock, and I finished taking care of Kiki. I pulled her suit back on just as George crawled under the stall and ran back to the pool. We ran after him, plunging back into water that felt remarkably warmer than when we first arrived.

After swimming I called my sister, who lives three houses down from the pool, and she invited us over.

When I showed up, her husband opened the door, and told me not to worry about locking the gate because he had to put their dog down earlier that day. I didn't know this was happening, and could sense the grief wafting from the open door. They are dog people, even letting their dog sleep on their bed pillows. When they first adopted the dog, the three of them slept in bed like an 1800's farm family, lined up, using each other for heat. I went in their house to find my sobbing sister roaming her house unhinged with sadness.

I knew they ran into problems because their dog bit someone, but didn’t know it escalated to this level. The woman who was nipped by my sister's dog put in claims against the dog so she could get monetarily reimbursed for her distress. The officer, who kept the dog at the pound after the biting, sounded very confident that the lady who the dog attacked was fine. He said her bite was barely a scratch.

After my sister sprung her dog from the pound, and took a break from looking over her shoulder, her husband retrieved a letter from the mailbox from the victim’s husband. It claimed a number of expenses were incurred due to her injury, and they needed to be monetarily reimbursed.

My sister called them, and after hearing the husband say repeatedly, "We aren't the kind of people to do this, but..."

My sister could only reply, "How much money do you want then?"

They couldn't settle on a number and needed a couple weeks to wrangle up receipts and documents proving costs. In the meantime, my sister's dog was cited and marked uninsurable. 

I don’t even like dogs, and I loved that dog. If I lived on a little house in big woods, I would want my sister's dog standing guard. He let George pull on his tail and stick his finger in his eye. My sister's dog was not the brightest. He was always getting into trouble by eating the most bizarre household items. He ate my parents' air conditioning vent, he ate BBQ hickory chips, he ate a life jacket, and he even ate a butane lighter. He ate poop! Other dog's poop! Maybe he thought it looked like chocolate. 

Their dog almost attacked me once. He has poor eyesight, and as I came out of my parents' garage, he didn't recognize me. He was very defensive, barking like mad. I froze stiff, and yelled for someone in my family to come and rescue me. Remaining calm on the outside, I moved closer to the door, inch by inch. My parents' dog came in the garage, and although he joined in on the barking, he ran at me. My sister's dog followed and once he got closer he lost the teeth baring bark, and regained his lively leaping and happy disposition. When I went in the house, out of breath and heart pacing, everyone looked at me unimpressed as I told them how I escaped death. The most sympathetic reaction I received was, "He has very bad eye sight, Alicia."

I adopted a reaction similar to my family’s this time. I hope the dog was protecting his house. I have a hard time imagining what this woman was doing standing outside their fence, except provoking the dog. Most likely she was poking at the dog with a stick as dollar signs danced around in her eyes.

She succeeded in being the kind of person who she claims not to be, and will get a check from the insurance company. The dog is now eternally chasing the sausage truck, or a chocolate truck, or maybe a poop truck. He would enjoy anything, really. A rare breed who liked to eat everything.

Cronut with Bum Fights

Today I ate a cronut. I have been wanting to try one for over a year. The only place I know of that sells them is a random French patisserie in the sketchy part of downtown. I loaded up the kids and drove to the mecca of bums, druggies and prostitutes.

Maybe it's because we live in the state capitol and it's easier to get assistance, but Sacramento has more homeless people than I could ever imagine. I grew up in San Francisco, where as a little kid, it seemed like there was a one to one ratio of homeless to housed, and downtown Sacramento is worse.
San Francisco has since erased this problem, and turned into a little honey pot, a haven where homeless, and even poor people, do not exist. 

Perhaps Sacramento's homeless population came from their inability to afford SF and the faux hippies turning their back on them because they're too busy working. 

I'd think they live in Sacramento due to the weather, but in a month, when the temperatures soar to hellish unbearable triple digits, the homeless do not mass migrate to cooler coastal temperatures. They still roam around, draped in parkas and sleeping bags, it is a fucking miracle they don't all fall over dead from heat stroke.

When the kids and I were getting our cronut, macaroons and coffee a lady screamed, "There's a fight."
Involuntarily, I screamed back, "A what?"
And a petite brunette stood up and pointed out the window across the street, shouting, "He is hitting her!"
I looked over, and this man and lady were fighting across the street. She was hitting him with her pink hawaiian print bag, and he was punching her in the side of the head. He wrapped his hands around her neck and started to strangle her. As her face turned bright red, a group of people ran across the street, pulling the two people apart.
That was my cue to get the kids in the fucking car, and get out of this shit part of town. With a coffee in hand, George on the hip, and a bag of food and Kiki on the other side, we rushed across the street to the car. When I was buckling in the kids, the strangling man came around the corner. He was meandering down the road like he was going about a casual day, looking at the clouds in the sky and birds flying by.
He didn't look like he was on a rampage, but I buckled the kids in with the kind of haste that we were next on this man's war path.
As we drove away, heading to a park in the much better part of town, I called my mom to share what I saw. She said, "I'm so glad you decided not to move downtown." And in a tone of elitist empathety, she added, "She must have been trying to steal his sleeping bag."

I guess you can take the girl out of San Francisco, but you can't take the San Francisco out of a girl.

Does a Bear Shit in the Woods?

Kiki refusing to dress down for sleep

Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes. Does a baby shit in the bathtub? Not normally. It happened when I was seasoning pork chops in the kitchen. The kitchen is just outside the bathroom, and I figured I could multitask. I'd run to the kitchen to do a brief task then pop back into the bathroom to see George splashing in the tub, and Kiki standing next to the tub, singing and filling up cups of water and pouring them back in the tub. She had on her bathing suit and was pretending to sunbath while laying on a towel she spread on the floor.

The worst of my worries while working quickly in the kitchen is that George would get maniacal in a splashing session and I’d have to clean up a sopping mess. I returned to the bathroom from the kitchen and had my phone in hand. I was looking down at it trying to read the recipe to see what I needed to do next and Kiki said, “Is that poop?”
Based on the crime scene, George’s intention wasn’t to shit in the tub. I moved the phone down, and looked in her face. She pointed next to my feet. There was a turd inches away from my flip-flop. Luckily, I didn’t panic and step into it. I assessed the area. It looked like he got out of the tub, pooped on the bath mat and then climbed back into the tub, smearing poop onto the tub, and finishing up the job in the water.

It was fucking disgusting. Suddenly, the sight of poop made me realize it smelled like poop. After seeing him pick a bath toy up, I screeched, and slapped the toy out of his hand. I yanked him from the water. He was throwing a fit because I ruined him calming spa session.

Kiki, who silently watched on as George climbed out of the tub, shit on the floor and then clumsily climbed his poop butt back into the tub, to poop a little more, was on my toes because she was completely captivated by the scene. I pulled the drain plug as we walked out of the bathroom and I shut the door. After everyone was in their pajamas and we were getting milks and ready to read books, I gave George eye contact and explained to him that pooping in the bathtub is not allowed, ever.

After the kids went to bed I cleaned up the bathroom. All the poop went in the toilet, and everything that couldn’t be bleached went in the trash. Poor mermaid Barbie, took a Cleveland Steamer, and because I didn’t feel like figuring out how to disinfect her long flowing blonde hair, I just chucked her in the trash. Then, I bleached the bathroom from top to bottom.

Today Kingsley was cracking up throughout the day bringing up the poop incident. I was joking with her, and said, “We can’t give George his bath until after he goes poopoo because someone took a number 2 in the bathtub.” Kiki is my little lady who wants to dress every day like it is her quinceanera. She even wants to dress in formal wear when she goes to bed, so for her to not scream in disgust after watching her brother shit on the floor is a bit mind-boggling. Is this the future, Kiki entertained by George acting like a freaking lunatic, keeping hush until the spectacle is over, so she can laugh about it later? I suppose the best answer would be, does a bear shit in the woods?

Southern Accents

"What did she say?" "I didn't hear a thing, George!" She says in a Lucille Bluth tone

Last weekend I rented BRAVE on Amazon. Since it was a 3 day rental, we wanted to maximize the investment, and watched it 7 times. It's a good movie, and thankfully, the more I watched it the less my heart strings were being tugged. The first run through I got the warm and fuzzies after a couple minutes into the film, and was crying by the end. I was so embarrassed, I considered smothering myself with the pillow I was using to dry my tears.

Kids movies are good at pushing those emotional buttons I keep under a safety cover. The one that has a sign saying, "Break glass in case of emergency."
I'm fine with crying over something worthy of a tear, but crying over a cartoon chicken looking for her baby chick, makes me feels as stupid as a chicken. If I want to cry over a video about chickens, then I would go onto PETA's website, and spend the rest of the month awake at night thinking, "What have I done?!"

After our rental came to an end, I talked in a Scottish accent the rest of the week. My kids didn't seem to mind, or even notice. I read all their picture books in my newly adopted voice. After binge watching House of Cards I dropped the Scottish accent, and picked up a Southern accent. Francis Underwood's Southern drawl echoed in my head all day long, and I couldn't help but imitate.

Jamberry is the perfect children's book to read in this accent. It's about a boy and his friend bear on an escapade through a berry rich countryside. They are country bumpkin types, no shoes with a top hat where the lid flops open. The best part is getting to say "berry" in my Underwood accent. It sounds like, "baaaray."

After I finished the season, I was relieved to have it off my plate. The most frustrating part about watching 13 hours of a TV show in a couple nights, is that the boring story lines become such a nuisance, an invitation to fast forward. The Doug Stamper story was so damn boring, and the cluster fuck with him and Rachel/Cassie went on much longer than it ever needed to. When he went to go find her, AGAIN, I said to myself, "if he doesn't kill her, or she doesn't kill him, I am never watching this show again." Spoiler alert, I can pick up where I left off 350 days from now.
The next show Im interested in watching is Mad Men. I'm so very happy to get that over with. The show should have ended in it's seven year itch, but because AMC wanted to stuff some more money in their pockets, they bitch slapped the audience by shelving half a season. This means another year of Mad Men inspired clothing lines at the mall and machismo car commercials where an impeccably groomed man is making ladies swoon upon his drive by, however, he's oblivious because he's so captivated by his own reflection in the side mirror.
My Southern accent will be gone by the time Mad Men starts up, which is unfortunate because I would have enjoyed commenting on Don Draper, and his rumored mammoth hamm panini. I'd spend the show clutching a hankie at my chin uttering, "My Lawd. Francis Underwood would be a pig in poop right now!"

Choo Choo

Red Heads: Ducks and Otherwise

The Simpsons eat your heart out: we moved table in front of TV

Kiki’s favorite movie is DUCKumentary, a PBS documentary on ducks. She likes watching all the ducks and the scenic shots, and I like learning obscure duck information. On walks around Tahoe I spread the knowledge by sharing DUCKumetary facts, but this can be off-putting to my brutish family, who then collectively shame me for being a show off know-it-all. Luckily, I am used to it, and know they do this out of love.

Paul Giamiati, the actor from Sideways, narrates the movie. Sideways started a genre of movies I like to call “The sad sad man.” After Sideways, there was a blitz of these types of films; a middle aged man is so overcome with despair and depression he spends the entire film moping around to finally realize he should shut the fuck up because he’s got it a hundred times better than most people. This genre contains such films as Wish I was Here, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Up In The Air and The Descendants.

The last two movies star George Clooney. George Clooney drives most women bonkers in a sexual way, but he makes my skin crawl. The way he charms himself more than anyone else is despicable and hard to watch. My repulsion towards George Clooney, and his being The World's Sexiest man, even with some horrific Roman/Frankenstein hair, has me wondering if I'm a repressed partial lesbian.

I am confident I am not complete lesbo because I have undeniable attraction toward men, currently and historically. Even unknown strangers can be attractive. Last summer, I went to Philadelphia and during a silent and hung over breakfast outside a bagel shop, I watched this street performer with the excitement of a panty-tossing groupie. He was missing a front tooth, and playing a banjo, but there was something luring about him.

In DUCKumentary there are plenty of interesting facts. A type of duck called Red Heads, lay some of their eggs in other ducks' nests in order to hedge bets that some chicks will survive if their own nest gets attacked by prey. Seems crazy, and I’m no animal expert, but clearly this mother’s concern for her chicks’ survival outweighs fostering a loving relationship.

Supposedly, red heads, the human kind, get a tough rap from the rest of the world. My friend Jane is a nurse, and told me that during her coursework there was a lecture on the abuse redheads receive from society. Perhaps the curriculum was outdated because I have never witnessed a negative misconception about redheads. All I have heard is the stereotype that they are crazy in bed, which I think is a pretty good stereotype to have.

My grandpa is a red head and, at 83, has a full head of red curly hair. I have never found him to be crazy, and my grandmother never gave me inside information as to how he behaved in the sheets, so I can’t attest to the stereotype. Out of their 6 children there was not a single red head, and only 1 of their 20 grandkids is a redhead.

The other day, I sat through the entire DUCKumentary movie for the first time, and realized the last couple minutes of the film go over duck mating. The mating scene is brief, lacking the Hollywood effects; nonetheless, loud tribal drumming is playing in the background. Duck mating looks like one duck balancing on the other’s back for a couple seconds. I scrunched up my face thinking about the 50 times my daughter has watched this movie, and awkwardly laughed.

I guess its better to get this birds and the bees business started early, and with the aid of an Emmy award winning PBS documentary. Hopefully, it builds the foundation to a healthy and self-aware sexual identity, so she doesn't have to ride the wave of sexual angst I bob along; wondering if my disliking of George Clooney indicates being a lesbian, but reaffirming heterosexuality based on the affection I felt towards a toothless street performer. Maybe it’s a red head thing, after all, its in my lineage.

Bonkers

Its in their lineage too

Holy Conjunctivitis!

Pink eye a.k.a Conjunctivitis

Kiki has Pink Eye! Last night her eye was goopy and after wiping it every 20 minutes, it dawned on me that the boogers coming out of her eyeball are not normal.

I have a terrifying early childhood memory of my mom rushing to get my older brother to school and my little brother is in his car seat crying because his eyes were glued shut from the eye goop drying and binding his eyelashes together. My mom didn't have time to wash it away in the early morning rush to get her 5 kids into the car so she could get the oldest to school.
I can still picture my brother crying because it fucking traumatized me. Much like a scene from a movie where a prisoner is being tortured by its captor, no one wants to see a toddler wailing because his eyes are glued shut.
Last night, while I was going to sleep I worried Kiki would wake up and be terrified she was blind if her eyes crust shut, so I sat awake for a long time waiting for her to call out to me. By the time I fell asleep it was middle of the night. Shortly after I drifted off Kiki shouted for me. I came running with a bowl of warm water and a wash cloth. Her eyes weren't glued shut, and when I tried to wipe away what little crusts were there she screamed, "I want to sleep!"
My daughter woke me up this morning by poking me in an eyelid with a finger she was probably using to rub her highly contagious eye minutes before. After four hours at urgent care we got her diagnosis and prescription for eye drops.
The line at the pharmacy was one where the distraction of an iPhone saved me from going completely ballistic by watching someone do their job at a snail's pace. Maybe the pharmacist was pissed she had to work International Women's Day, so she decided to do the minimum required without there being an uprising, and all the customers storm the storage cabinets for the medication.

I couldn't get too worked up over the line because I was thinking of how I was going to get the drops into my daughter's eyes. That involved pinning her down, and holding her eyeball open. She was screaming and crying, and I was scared I would stab her in the eye with the eye dropper. It was as horrifying as watching my little brother in his car seat.

The silver lining to her catching conjunctivitis; we got out of all social obligations this weekend!! We also did a disinfecting deep clean on the house, and finally planted our garden. A garden the kids will dismember one flower at a time when my back is turned.
I can kind of understand now why kids do things that seem psychopathic, like stomping on flowers, or squeezing a worm in half. Its retribution. The weak picking on the weaker, a downward spiral of violent actions.
I hope the eye drops go better tomorrow, but the flowers, are much more hopeful.

Butt Licking Mountain Lions

Summer is upon us!

Last summer I took the kids to the fish hatchery for story time. The National Forrest Service runs the hatchery and they raise salmon. When we first started going, it was so much fun. Only a few kids came to story time then, but some freaking mom blogs were really plugging the shit out of this place, and it turned into a chaotic mad house. It became overrun, and the story time, followed by a walk out to see the fish with the Ranger, was not fun anymore.

One of the last times we went to the hatchery’s story time the ranger read excerpts from a nature book that is geared toward eight year olds, not a group of toddlers. The book’s theme was how nature can be disgusting. The ranger pulled out a turkey vulture puppet and read the excerpt on turkey vultures, how they eat the dead salmon that die when the water dries up. It seemed interesting and not too gross.

Then she read another excerpt about mountain lions. She informed the little kids that when a baby mountain lion is born it doesn’t poop until its mom licks its butthole enough to bring on the doodoo. I don’t think any of the kids understood what the fuck this kooky lady was talking about.

This concept of “gross” (as in butt licking is gross, especially when its from a familial relation) is not really something a toddler can grasp. They don’t really understand the need to wash their hands, or use toilet paper, so a story about a mom licking it’s baby’s butt to make it poop would not make them think, “gross,” but likely think “moms lick buttonholes?” or maybe, "I didn't know buttonholes get licked?"

Kiki didn’t know what the fuck the lady was talking about because she stole the turkey vulture puppet and was dancing with it in the corner. My friend and I just looked at each other giving a WTF expression; nostrils flared and gigantic eye roll.

This weekend is going to be 75 degrees and that means the hell temperatures of Sacramento summer are just around the corner. The vultures will be feasting on those salmon that never made it to the lake, and all the baby mountain lion butt holes have been licked into activity.

It's funny how, after going to the hatchery 20 times, I can't recall any fun facts about the salmon, but I will probably always remember the butt hole licking tidbit. When I am 123 and living on my compound, I will be sitting in my wheel chair watching the Golden Girls, probably unable to recognize my own children, but I will still have this fucking piece of information imprinted in my brain. 
My daughter will look at me confused, as I call to her, "Dorothy, have you heard about the mountain lions?"

My future (I wish)