The ol' switch-er-oo: One pastor's warped attempt to drive me from the church

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me for the fiftieth time...watch your back~I have nothing to lose at this point. Except, of course, for what used to be my unshakable belief in the innate goodness of humanity. "But, who?" you cry out, devastated that the naive little urchin you've come to adore should come to be brought so low. I kindly refrain from pointing out that you sound like an owl. You hold back a laugh that I just used the adjective "little" to describe myself. "Who would cause you to look bleakly upon the human condition? A serial killer? A perpetrator of mass genocide?" No, friends...these individuals may still possess some remnant of redeemable quality. Perhaps they throw away their nasty toenail clippings instead of leaving them on the coffee table...not that I know anyone who actually does that. No, friends. The person responsible for my plummeting trust in others is, of course, my pastor!

So...on Thursday, my pastor responsibly sent me Sunday's reading. I immediately blew it up to a size 22 font and highlighted every other sentence in yellow so I could begin practicing reading it aloud. I reflected, semi-deeply, upon the passage's meaning. By Sunday...I was ready. I entertained Brad by reading the Scripture on our way to church...he threw me off a bit when he accused me of pronouncing Philippians as the Philippines but, like a pitcher shaking off his catcher's incompetent call,  I got my head back in the game as I slid confidently into the pew. Until...

"Wait," Brad said sharply, glancing at the worship bulletin, "I thought you were assigned Philippians." "I was," I answered with a scowl, squinting at the itinerary. And there, by my name, was printed John. Naturally, I assumed that the weight of blame must lay upon my own diminutive shoulders. I must have made a mistake. Oh no. I knew that I wouldn't be able to read this new passage with the same passion and conviction as Philippians. Brad walked over to consult with the pastor about this late inning change-up. Like a gopher, I peered over my fellow parishioners and caught the guilty look on my friar's face. My guilt immediately transformed into a homicidal rage in a way that made me think of mild-mannered scientist Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk. The two men cautiously approached me. Brad had a warning look on his face, sending me screaming telepathic messages to remember that I was in church. My pastor had his hands up like he was approaching either a suicide bomber or a rabid fawn. I'm not exactly sure about the degree of fear that I instill in others...maybe rabid baby bunny. Apologies were extended which I graciously accepted and now all that was left was to read the teeny-tiny font of the pew bible.

Except...

REALLY?

The scheduled order of events...according to the printed WORSHIP BULLETIN...was for me to read following a song. The song was wonderful. We had a cello. We had a French horn. We had our pastor bumbling along on his little guitar, as usual. But for some reason, in the MIDDLE of the song, the worship band paused....a long note played out as we all looked confused at one another. Were balloons going to fall from the ceiling? Was Lady Gaga going to erupt from the hidden platform beneath the stage wearing flamingo feathers? Maybe the winner of the 50/50 raffle was going to be announced? I glanced at the pastor who was busy giving me squirrel face while the French horn player was turning a light shade of blue holding her note. I gave him squirrel face back then looked toward the front door to see if the Shriners in their little cars were revving their engines before racing into the church. I looked again at the pastor who then jerked his chin from me to the podium. Guy's gonna give himself a neck injury that way, I thought vindictively, imagining him in that funny brace thing. The French player's face had turned from a soothing pale blue to over-ripe blueberry. OH! He wants me to read NOW! I leaped up, as the French player gasped her last, and huddled over the podium, my eyes inches from the size 1/4 font, and stumbled through my passage. The song resumed as I made my way back to my seat, my husband delighted that I'd kept four-letter words and fingers associated with them to myself. It was, as always, an inspirational moment. I cannot WAIT until my church gets live-feed services so I can just watch from home.

April Fool's Day: But what if he chokes?

I am a BIG baby when it comes to April Fool's Day. I HATE having pranks pulled on me and seldom put forth either the effort or initiative to set a scheme in motion. I, dear friends, abide by subsection C, paragraph 4 of The Golden Rule. Treat not (or trick) others, the way thee wishes to not be treated (or tricked). Repent pranksters! Fear the looming cloud of retaliation. I paraphrase, of course.

The one exception to the rule...is Brad. My husband has come to view April Fool's Day as a vitiated Valentine's Day.  A day where Amy pulls out all the stops to make him the very center of her world. How he has come to look forward to my little expressions of appreciation! Weeks of research go into the planning of my diabolical deceptions. Unfortunately, this year, I would be out of town during April Fool's Day, visiting my daughters in San Diego. "Too bad," Brad sympathized.

"So what are you going to do?" my friend, Cathy, an avid supporter of my April Fool shenanigans, asked. "I don't know," I fumed, "but I'll think of something." Hours better spent in the formulation of a plan for world peace were instead devoted to combing through thousands of websites for the perfect prank. Foil-wrapped grapes to mimic chocolate eggs were set on the back-burner to serve as an alternate should the 1st Place Prank Pageant Winner not be able to perform due to a lurid background or seedy past. Time was growing short and Brad was becoming bolder. "Maybe you could try one of your cute little tricks on the girls," he smilingly suggested, foolishly feeling geographically secure. "I've got it," I yelled, my eureka-moment, I'm sure, rivaling Newton's. "Chocolate-covered cotton-balls!" Cathy looked dubious. "Won't the chocolate just absorb into the cotton?" she wondered. "Maybe you should freeze them first. And what if he chokes?" "Imagine the blog ratings I'd get from that," I squealed, "Maybe people would actually start sharing my posts!"

Trial one was initiated a week from my departure and was an abysmal failure. The chocolate melted clumpy ("Because you didn't do it in smaller increments," scolded Cathy, "putting a hundred chocolate disks over the highest heat possible was a recipe for failure."). But I would not be deterred. Nor would Brad as he gleefully commiserated my inability to April Fool him EVERY day. I purchased a small container of melting chocolate designed for chocolate-covered strawberries. My friend, Kirsten and I sat down at a school table, and happily created our chocolate-covered cons. "They look pretty good," Kirsten admitted, "kind of like truffles But what if he chokes?" I briefly wondered if anyone had died as a result of an April Fool's joke (Don't Google that, by the way. It's horrifying.) but, just to be safe, decided to test-try it. I carefully bit into my traitorous truffle. First impression: The chocolate is delicious! Second impression: The inside is NOT edible...no danger in mistaking it for something yummy.

I packaged my dessert of deception into Brad's Easter basket, nestled among many legit treats. I carefully hid the basket and planted a slew of clues around the house before I left for San Diego and then counted the days down to Easter/April Fool's Day. As the sun rose on Easter Sunday, I texted Brad the first clue to set off his scavenger hunt. It wasn't long before victory was mine! My husband was disgusted. I was delighted. "Did you stop and think that maybe I could have choked to death?" he asked, pretending to be angry. At least, I think he was pretending. "I field-tested it," I assured him, "I bit into it and there was no problem." He paused pointedly on the phone. "I didn't bite into it," he told me, "I tossed the whole d@#ned thing in my mouth. Have YOU ever chewed on a cotton-ball?" I giggled. "April Fool's Day, Brad!"

Meeting April in April

"I'm so looking forward to seeing Cousin David," I said, watching California rush by out my window. Gripping the steering wheel, Savannah sighed as she carefully navigated the L.A. freeway. "Cousin David? Mom, we are not from Appalachia." I bristled indignantly. "Savannah...you say that as though it's a bad thing. We, too, come from a mountainous region of close-knit kin." She laughed. "Are you talking about the Adirondacks?" My 4th grade geography kicked in. "The Allegheny Plateau spills into the Allegheny Mountains which includes Appalachia, Sa-vannah," I emphasized, "so don't be ignorant."

As we neared the City of Angels, I began to look for a stopped traffic opportunity in which to step out and perform my much-practiced choreographed dance number. "You might have to boost me up onto a neighboring car," I told Savannah, "but I should be good-to-go from there." "Just give me the word," she nodded.

"Are we almost there?" I asked as my arms were beginning to shake from the strain of holding my hostess gift against the air-conditioning vent. "I cannot believe you are bringing that to Cousin David's," Savannah remarked, glaring at me. "It was just dumb luck that prevented her from bringing it into church with us this morning," Sydney muttered sleepily from the back seat. "I didn't want it to melt," I explained. "We're here," Savannah announced, pulling into the driveway of a magnificent house, "Heaven help us all." I stared. "Do movie stars live here?" Robin Leach's voice began narrating in my head. Tucked among the stately hills haloed by the famed Hollywood sign, Cousin David and his beautiful wife April entertain hick guests in typical Los Angeles luxury.

(Acting) pleased to see us, April accepted my hostess gift with admirably-concealed confusion. "It is a butter lamb," I intoned, bowing with a flourish before dipping gracefully into the queen's curtsy, "A symbol of my people." Savannah and Sydney stared at me, dumbfounded. "Mom...you are NOT Polish," Sydney whispered. "I could be," I whispered back, "I love perogies." "They're a tradition in Buffalo," Savannah explained. To my relief, April tucked the shiny little lamb into the refrigerator.

We toured the house with Savannah reminding me to close my mouth every few minutes. Robin Leach morphed into Lawrence Welk as I kept saying, "Wunnerful...wunnerful," as each amazing room was revealed. "Stop me," I begged Sydney but we were both struck dumb by a high-ceiling reading turret, windows sparkling like diamonds. "Come out onto the balcony," April invited. "Does she have cake for me to throw?" I asked, seconds before Savannah pinched me. "Ouch! That's going to bruise!" "Can you please stop acting like a hill-billy?" she hissed. Ouch.

We sat down to chat; April commiserated with me about my little traveling woes. "My parents navigate airports quite a bit," she explained, "of course, that's international travel and they speak very little English. Come to think of it, though, they've never encountered the problems that you faced." She smiled at me. I narrowed my eyes. Uh-huh...now I know what I'm dealing with. "I'll distract her," I whispered to Sydney, "steal our lamb back." Disappearing, April returned to thrust a beautiful sushi set into my hands. "Ancel-cay e-thay utter-bay amb-lay," I muttered to Sydney, fingering the delicate dishes. She looked confused. "What?" "She said to cancel the butter lamb," April told her while Savannah moaned and buried her head in her arms.

Cousin David and April regaled us with funny stories about how they met, the dark, winding streets of Shanghai, and the gripping tale of how David almost lost an ear to frostbite during a bout of bargaining all while their athletic son, Calvin, attempted to set a world record bouncing a ping pong ball on his paddle. Unfortunately, his proud parents had to interrupt this endeavor to take us to an incredible bakery. "They're known for their cheese rolls," April explained. We glanced at one another, doubtful. Cheese rolls? An hour later, we would learn NEVER to doubt April again. April, clearly, is a genius. And when we finally left the bakery, clutching a giant box of extra cheese rolls that April bought for us, we decided that we LOVE April. And cheese rolls. 

Part Two of the Trolley Tour: How my fear of technology almost cost me the BEST DESSERT IN THE WHOLE WORLD!!!

Denied gelato-eating bragging rights at the Hotel Coronado, I admit to sulking a bit until we hit the beach. Let me amend that. The gold-flecked beach sprinkled with sand dollars. It was completely magical. After being chased out of the Pacific by heart-stoppingly cold water and a vicious ghost sand crab, I began collecting sand dollars in earnest. Seventeen 4th graders equals seventeen sand dollars (plus one for me!). Savannah sighed. "You know how to tell if they're alive, don't you?" I froze (Actually...I hadn't yet de-thawed from dipping my tootsies in the icy Pacific...the Atlantic has now been cemented as my favorite ocean pending my introduction to the Indian Ocean...I have theological issues with the fabled Southern Ocean...how does one demote a planet and arbitrarily assign an ocean? It's all a money-making scheme of those calculating cartographers.). A Google-search revealed that half my inventory fell into the catch and release category. "If you still want to eat lunch in Little Italy then we should go," Savannah said. Turns out that empty stomach trumps generous spirit so, gripping my one precious sand dollar (confirmed dead according to Google), we boarded the trolley to continue our tour.

After my bawdy burrito encounter, Savannah directed us towards a more familiar food choice:  Pizza. Couldn't go wrong there! We sat at sidewalk-side tables and I eagerly lifted the bacon and pineapple slice to my mouth. Wait a second. That's not pineapple. "Is this potato?" I asked Savannah who, despite her seamless San Diego acclimation, also appeared a bit surprised. "Do I like this?" I asked, a cosmic question directed to the universe. My taste-buds were still trying to recover from the shock of expecting the tropical delight of pineapple and instead receiving the earthy texture of sod-grown pomme de terre (I thought the French translation made the potato seem more whimsical). I took another tentative bite. I didn't hate it. The bacon acted as an excellent mediator...like a friend accompanying you on a blind-date. The experience began as a wrinkle-your-nose, I'm-not-willing-to-commit-to-THAT before evolving into a non-committal shrug willing to put up with boring conversation before finally deciding that you could see yourself willing to go all the way. Once. Normally, I'm not that kind of a girl but sometimes you have to let yourself live a little.

We headed down the street to a dessert shop with a window filled with beautiful meringues, each colorful creation the size of my fist.  My comfort-zone took a hit when I realized that orders were taken at ipad stations. Intimidated, I was willing to move on but Savannah confidently poked at the pad. She custom-ordered an amazing gelato concoction. When I picked it up, I used my human interaction to ask about ordering a meringue. The dessert architect was French and explained that the fist-sized meringues were designed to be filled with gelato and directed me to quarter-sized meringues packaged in gift-boxes. But the heart wants what the heart wants. Despondent, I turned away but Savannah would not be daunted. We returned to the ipad. Order meticulously placed, I then turned to watch my dessert artist go to work. It was like watching the Mona Lisa being painted.

I met her at the end of the counter as she took my dessert behind a mysterious chrome contraption. She pulled on special gloves. I glanced nervously at Savannah but my daughter was too busy shoveling gelato in her mouth to notice me. Suddenly, my dessert was there...cloaked by a magical mist erupting from the bottom container. I gasped. I clapped. "How?!?" But my dessert artisan gently refused to reveal the secrets behind my magical meringue. But who am I to question the French woman behind the curtain? I made it to the Emerald City and received my gift from the wizard. "You know it's just dry ice, don't ya?" Savannah asked. "Shut up, Savannah," I hissed, "I prefer my dessert shrouded in secrecy."


We sat on a bus bench, having arrived at the peak of happiness. I fed Syd like a baby bird, cracking the meringue, diving for the fruit sauce at the bottom of the bowl, squeezing the bulbous syrup straw over the creamy gelato. Our trolley pulled up but we didn't budge. "Are you getting on?" our driver called and I waved at my dessert as an obvious answer. "What is that?" she asked so stood I on the bottom step to show her. Before I knew it, I had disappeared into the depths of the trolley. "Where's Mom?" Savannah wondered, finally coming up for air as she reached the end of her gelato. Sydney pointed to the trolley. "I believe that she is currently orchestrating a power-point demonstration of her dessert," Sydney explained, "She just started the question-and-answer part of her presentation." I triumphantly exited the bus and we waved at the departing passengers. After I finished my life-altering dessert, we waited for the next trolley and realized that we'd, figuratively, reached the end of the road. How could it get ANY better than this? I wasn't wearing ruby shoes, but I clicked my heels anyway as I leaned forward on the bench. It was time to go home.

Some like (to eat gelato when) it hot, starring Jack Lemongrass: Part One of the Trolley Tour

The girls and I took the trolley tour around San Diego where one can learn lots of interesting and relevant details about your host city. Like there are 109 varieties of palm trees planted in this, the 8th largest city in the United States. "I had no idea you were this into horticulture," Sydney whispered over my shoulder as I took note of the fascinating Naked Coral tree that we passed. "You'd think she'd be more into helping Dad garden," she said to her sister. Savannah shrugged.

We started out at the Seaport Village for a dockside perusal of The Midway. Savannah refused to let us tour the historic vessel. "Remember the Intrepid?" she frowned. Wow. Make fun of Savannah for two straight hours as she meticulously studies the piping system of a legendary aircraft carrier and get punished for eternity. Some people just can't let stuff go.

We paused to watch two ducks playing until we realized that they weren't playing. All set to a street performers haunting rendition of Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb. "I wish my life had a sound-track," I complained when the song (and everything else) was finished. We clapped and moved on.

In the spirit of NOT giving one's mother everything she wants and more, Sydney then refused to walk down to see the infamous Kissing Statue commemorating the end of World War II. "It's the principle of the thing," Sydney declared as we instead had our picture taken in front of the ship used in Pirates of the Caribbean as well as Master and Commander. "First of all...she wasn't a nurse, she was a dental hygienist..." I interrupted indignantly, "You weren't raised to discriminate, young lady...some of our best friends are dental hygienists (Hi Michelle!)" "That's not the point, Mom. That iconic photo, and now the statue, perpetuates a lie. Plus, our hometown hero," she grimaced in disgust, "our drunk returning warrior kissed a woman he didn't even know while his future wife stood twenty feet away. It's exploitative." I sighed. Moral indignation is exhausting.

We traversed the Coronado Bridge where I was delighted to learn that the same-named luxury hotel was the backdrop to the movie Some Like It Hot. I had my reservations (Ha! See what I did there?!?), waiting for a stern lecture from my daughters about the film's insensitively capitalizing on society's perceived concept of sexual norms for the sake of comedy. "Not at all," Sydney said, "Some Like It Hot is notable for challenging gender assumptions and Jack Lemmon is just plain funny." Savannah just looked confused as Syd and I skipped happily through the lobby. "I've never seen it," Savannah admitted while everyone in the building stopped in shock and stared at her.

She ushered us past the dessert shop, their display windows filled with the fluorescent colors of gelato. I'm not ashamed to say I begged. "I want to be able to tell everyone that I ate gelato on the veranda of the Hotel Coronado," I pleaded as she dragged me away. "We're going to Little Italy next," she said sternly, "It'll be just as good AND cheaper."

She distracted me with a meridian filled with fake grass. I'm a big fan. Built over a desert, San Diego carpets their city with fake grass. It fools no one. It's like a bad toupee. If I could market it, I would call it Turf Toupee. When I spotted some real grass, sickly-colored and limp, pushing its way pathetically to the surface along the edge of the turf toupee, I was overwhelmed with a sense of symbolism, irony, and hope. Interesting to think that that real grass would soon be plucked like a weed so as not to distract from the uniformity of the fake grass. We made Savannah take our picture on the fake grass but the angle emphasized my ten chins (That would be my name in Iroquois). With no turtleneck handy, I adjusted my sweatshirt but then we got to laughing so hard that Savannah couldn't get a good shot.
Plus my bangs shifted to the right, exposing ample advertising space on my forehead. End point: Just look at the fake grass and forget that I refused to wear my retainer as a kid.

Whereupon we enter "Phase Three" of Day One of my San Diego adventure where my expectations (and a beer bottle) are again shattered

I cannot POSSIBLY tell you everything that happened on this fun-filled, action-packed day that rocketed my glass elevator of expectations through the roof and into the stratosphere. Sorry for the weirdly random Willy Wonka reference--not actually ALL that big a fan (Gene Wilder's tunnel scene traumatized me as a child) but my school hit that play out of the park.

Speaking of natural-sounding transitions, this phase of fun concludes at the ball park. I'm going to skip the part where Savannah dragged me to a hat store in the mall whereupon I learned that Savannah lacks the ability to pinpoint an item listed in alphabetical order on the mall map; whereupon I was delighted to discover a teeny-tiny parking lot feather that WAS STILL THERE when we exited the building so I taped it to Savannah's dashboard, happily declaring it my first souvenir; whereupon I was amazed by a mall with open-air courtyards, "Savannah, I need my sunglasses." "Mom, wait, I'm trying to find Lids on the mall map." and there were DOGS shopping too.! Not just at dog-appropriate stores either...but, like Victoria Secret and Baby Gap. This was the best mall ever! (said the girl born and raised in Wyoming County).

We stopped at a little Mexican place before heading over to the second day of the Padre's season opener against the Brewers. Or, more accurately, to see former Kansas City first baseman, Eric Hosmer play against former Kansas City outfielder Lorenzo Cain. More of a grilled cheese girl, I asked what to order. "We usually get burritos," Savannah advised. "What's a burrito...exactly?" I inquired, completely ashamed. My mother never gave me "the Mexican food" talk as a girl...just offered me a menu and let me learn on my own. Which is how I got into this mess. If only they had a special class for this as school.

"I never wanted to have to tell you this," Sydney began, glancing nervously at her sister. It was a difficult conversation to have with one's mother. "You know how you buy those giant, soft taco shells when we have tacos?" I nodded, bracing for the worst. "You are actually making burritos. Tacos are served open-faced. Burritos are wrapped." Needless to say, I was stunned. So I ordered my first professional burrito, It lay heavy, soft and warm in my hand. "You know what this feels like..." I began to say before quickly getting interrupted. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about," I assured my girls, "the key to food awareness is communication." I then learned that squeezing the burrito too hard leads to pretty disastrous consequences. But, for my first time, I thought I did pretty well.

We made it to the game...Row 10 behind home plate! Close enough to see Hosmer wiggle while at bat. "Why is Gargamel terrorizing the fans," I wondered. "Who's Gargamel? Sydney wondered.  Thus I began a lengthy history of Smurfdom lore while Savannah tried to explain the origin of the word padre." "I just learned what a burrito is, Savannah," I snapped, "My brain is not ready to accept the introduction of another Spanish word."

We had a delightful time. The girls ducked under their chairs upon the arrival of any foul ball while I screamed, "I got it!" when it was very clear that I did not, in fact, have it. We were initially confused by the crowd reaction to an apparently naughty Brewers player to the plate. "Boo-oo! Cheater! Boo-oo!" A quick Google search affirmed that this wayward player was, indeed, pretty naughty. He arrived up to bat as the 9th inning began with the bases loaded and the Padres with what had been a comfortable three run lead. The crowd rose as one, very angry body, the stadium echoing their disdain. My voice joined theirs. "Everyone makes mistakes!" I hollered, willing a weak hit to right field. "Repent, batter!" Fueled by hatred, his Grand Slam caused a lot of mouths to suddenly slam shut.  A mostly quiet crowd exited the stadium. As we were rooting for Lorenzo Cain as well as Eric Hosmer, we left happy. "I didn't like how the announcer pronounced the Hoz's name with an s," Sydney remarked but we all agreed that our new second favorite Padre's player is Cory Spangenberg, a good third baseman with a LOT of personality. We laughed as the Brewer's first baseman chased Cory out and around the baseline, Spangenberg ducking, diving, and dodging his way, unsuccessfully, to the bag.

Our wait for an Uber in the midst of the mobbed Gaslamp District put us in the epi-center of a street-side brawl. I was already distracted by the scantily-clad costumes of the clubbers ("Put on a sweater, for Pete's sake!" That skirt is definitely not at finger-tip length!"), when the first of a hailstorm of beer bottles flew over our heads.Salty language filled the street. Fists were flung. Bottles broken. Glass shattered. It was clear that a diplomatic resolution would not soon be met. "Well...THAT was something," I said, as we hopped into our Uber and sped off. I would not have predicted to end my evening in THAT fashion. I couldn't WAIT to see what would happen next.

Whereupon my San Diego adventures continue and my expectations still keep shattering (and it's only the first day)

Obviously, the San Diego zoo was high on my list of priorities upon coming to this dark and desolate land. "You mean after being reunited with your daughters," remarked Savannah, spraying suntan lotion on the back of my legs. "Don't forget my nose," I told her, attaching my very-cool magnetic sunglasses to my Mr. Magoo prescription bifocals, "you know how my 4th graders tend to get distracted from learning if I have a red nose."

I was enchanted from the very moment I arrived. "Savannah! Look! Look!" I grabbed her hand and dragged her over to the display window. Could anything be more precious? "They have margaritas here!" Savannah pulled me away. "We're here to see the animals, Mom," she reminded me.

First on the line-up was the dangerous Galapagos tortoise of which my husband harbors warm childhood memories of  riding like a Shetland pony manned by a warp Wyatt Earp (who, fun fact, lived in San Diego for about ten years) before PETA put a stop to the reptile-riding rodeos of our youth. Take away our candy cigarettes, too, why don't ya? I got into an argument with a guy who tried convincing me that a tractor-sized flat disc covered in sand submerged in a shallow pool of water surrounded by gators was some sort of exotic turtle. Hey buddy, I got a broken-down bridge in Letchworth State Park to sell ya. So what if the tractor-tire shivered some sand off. So what if it flicked what looked like a tiny tail at us. I was a gal grounded in reality.

My main goal, obviously, was the koalas but Sydney demanded that we wait until she got off work and could join us so as to share in my delight in first seeing these cuddly little creatures. "What are we going to do now?" I wondered, drifting back to the margaritas. "The San Diego zoo has over 4,000 animals," Savannah told me, pulling me in the opposite direction. "I wonder how many different varieties of margaritas they have?" I pondered. Then I spotted the sky-fari. "That's an awful

long line," my daughter frowned, spotting hordes of toddler-tantrums and preschool pouting snaking along the sidewalk. "Puh-leeze," I whined. As we waited, I commented, "The only thing that could make this moment any better would be an ice-cream cone ("or a margarita," I added parenthetically.}" Savannah missed my subtle hint so I sulked silently for a bit. ("Silently?" Savannah asked.)

Before you knew it ("Twenty-five minutes later," Savannah clarified), we were soaring above the zoo, spotting animals. "Look...a sparrow!" I shouted. Too soon, the ride was over.

And then it happened...just when I thought that what I really wanted to see was a koala, I discovered that what I really wanted to see was Otis, the San Diego hippo. He was delightfully rambunctious. Tip-toeing daintily across underwater rocks, gliding gracefully through his placid pond until, without warning he erupted out, a hippo hurricane of snapping jaws and teeth. He roared and bellowed. We roared and bellowed back. "Is this your version of fireworks?" Savannah asked as I clapped and carried on. The crowd abruptly fell silent as Otis sudden shifted into reverse, backing up strategically to a convenient boulder that shall henceforth be called, "Lack-of-Pride Rock." "I think THAT is Otis's version of fireworks," I whispered, my eyes unable to unsee what I had just seen.

It was time to meet up with Sydney who henceforth would be known as the grumpiest mammal at the San Diego Zoo. She stomped over to us. Stomp, stomp, stomp. "I had a bad day," she snarled. "I don't want to talk about it. Now let's go see the koalas." Stomp, stomp, stomp. Frightened, Savannah and I scurried after her.

"They're sleeping," I observed, disappointed. "Savannah, throw a rock at one." She refused (I'm kidding PETA). Sydney immediately began scouring the ground for one but Savannah rushed ahead, shouting, "This one's awake!" The crowd watched happily as our little guy ("He's smaller than I thought he would be," I admitted, "Like the Mona Lisa.") munched sleepily on a Eucalyptus leaf. We gasped with horror as the leaf left his furry little grasp and floated to the ground. We looked around for help. Zoo guests rapidly untied their sneakers to assemble a giant shoelace lasso but the leaf, unfortunately, could not be saved. Traumatized, I asked to leave the zoo immediately.

My spirits improved when I learned that the mountain separating me from the parking lot could be traversed by a series of uphill people-movers. "What wonder of man is this..." I shouted, immobile-ly mobile, "I shall never walk again!" "You barely walk now," Savannah noted, righting me as I tumbled off the people-mover.

Phase two of our three-part adventure had concluded...and the day was not yet near to being done. Still ahead:  How to eat a burrito and cajole an unforgiving mob...oh! And a street fight! Is it time to go home yet?