A fine day out it was, when we decided on the spur of a chilly Sunday moment to visit the Detroit Zoo. We’d been meaning to go since the baby wolverines were wee, but with the hot summer, this, that and the other thing, we didn’t get there until today. The verdict: Down at the heels, but still salvageable. Kate was at her absolute mommy-pleasing best, which is to say, she said things like this, in the snake house:
“That gaboon viper is really well-camouflaged. And look — his head looks just like a leaf.”
It did. I was impressed.
And then we reached the lions, who looked like they were posing for a calendar — resting on their rock ledges in the sunshine, male on the higher one, female below, both looking off into the distance with that king-of-beasts attitude. Very impressive. But the highlight of the day was the “rescue story” on a sign outside the exhibit, on how one of the females got there:
What a magnificent, only-in-Detroit detail. You see now why “Animal Cops” does its best work here.
Doesn’t that bear’s expression say it all? Winter’s coming. Think I’ll take a little nap.
So, the bloggage:
The older I get, the less interested I am in celebrity gossip. This is a sign of maturity, I suppose, but also of exhaustion. I just don’t have time to develop an opinion on the quality of Jessica Simpson’s marriage, particularly since I would have problem identifying her in a police lineup with five other pretty blondes. A few weeks ago I was at a party where one of the guests was revealed to be a stringer for People magazine. The conversation instantly turned to Brad v. Jen.
“Are you on Team Anniston or Team Pitt?” someone asked. Thank God this is a decision I will not be making anytime soon.
But every so often some little worm of dirt works its way in, and so it is that I’ve started paying attention to the Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise offspring-in-utero. I guess anyone who’s ever given birth has an opinion on how it should or shouldn’t go, opinions we develop over nine months of reading and thinking about birth non-stop, followed by another six months of regret, recriminations and rewinding of the delivery-room tape (which, for most of us, exists entirely in our minds). That’s probably why I’m reading in astonishment about Scientology birth practices, and the central question:
I guess it’s a Scientology thing: In his book Preventive Dianetics, Hubbard elaborates on the goal of this practice: Apparently pretending to all concerned that pushing a human being out your coochie is not only painless, but downright relaxing, will “save both the sanity of the mother and the child and safeguard the home to which they will go.” Furthermore, L. Ron goes on to admonish, “the maintaining of silence does not mean a volley of ‘sh’s,’ for those make stammerers.” After a delivery that’s “as calm and no-talk as possible,” the baby should “be wrapped somewhat tightly in a warm blanket, very soft, and then left alone for a day or so.”
Not even a year ago, this girl was a strict Catholic. I ask you.
Busy busy busy day tomorrow starts a busy busy busier week. Into the starting blocks!