May I Introduce Myself?

I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met. My name is Kelly, and though you may have read some of my earlier posts (and thank you very much for taking the time to do so, Kind Readers!), I realized I haven't taken a moment (or hour) to tell those of you not yet "in the know" about myself.

I grew up in Greentown, Indiana, a small town hidden among corn and soy fields. Restless and yearning for something—anything—more exciting than I could find in the one-cop town, I discovered a Teaching Zoo program in Gainesville, Florida, and made a break for it. After (barely) surviving college, I started my zookeeping career as a Bat Keeper for The Lubee Foundation, a private facility owned by Ron Bacardi (of the rum, yes. Ever wonder why there's a bat on the label?!). No, I never met him, and much to my dismay, free rum was not part of my benefits package. So I left.

Okay, so of course that's not the reason, but a few cases of free rum might have gone a long way towards convincing me to stay. Just saying...

After bats (flying foxes), the natural progression is...killer whales, right? I became a conservation educator for Sea World...where I did get free beer, thank you very much. Did you know Sea World - at least back in my day - was owned and operated by Anheuser-Busch? (Budweiser, Bud Light, Michelob...Are the bells all ringing now?) Um, even as I write it, I'm starting to see a pattern emerge: I often seem to be gainfully employed by major distributors of alcohol products.

Perhaps it's an instinct...  

Once the Anheuser-Busch bartenders realized I’d figured out their shift changes in the beer tasting booths and had clocked my breaks accordingly, they banned me. (Kidding! I’m better at disguises than that!) But, when I started introducing myself to people at parties or bars by shouting over the noise, “Can I have your attention please? (*clap! clap!*) Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Kelly and I’m going to be your tour guide this evening! If everyone will please line up and follow me, I’m going to throw you to the sharks in Terrors of the Deep...” (*evil laugh*) Well, I knew it was time for a new adventure.

I surrendered my free theme park pass, tearfully kissed the bartenders goodbye, and off to the Central Florida Zoo I skipped. I started in the Bird department, cajoled my way into Primates, and pestered my curator (The Boss!) until he let me train in felines, bear-care, crested porcupines, and the occasional foray into large mammal care (that’s hoof stock in zoo talk...See? I’m teaching you already! And you thought all I got out of the Sea World job was free beer!). Since animal care by day wasn’t enough, I volunteered to be a wildlife rehabilitator for the injured/orphaned critters people found and brought to the zoo. I had a veritable zoo of my own at home to prepare for life in the wild.  

You may by now, Kind Reader, be catching on to me.

I bore far too easily.

Now that the secret’s out, I can admit that in addition to sticking my nose into most departments of the zoo (with a healthy respect for the boundary at the threshold of the Reptile House...) I also took on the role of veterinary assistant. I managed the hospital and supplies, but the real reason I took it on was the opportunity to assist the Veterinarians and their students from the University of Florida during vet rounds. I donned a thinking cap and camouflaged myself amid the vet students during procedures, exams, and surgeries, in order to learn what the vets were teaching. Plus, I got to do things like strong-arm an adult male mandrill, and cuddle clouded leopards. So what if the mandrill was strung out on tranquilizers and the leopards were bottle-fed cubs? It’s still more fun than sitting at a desk, crunching numbers and stapling papers, or whatever it is that some of you have to do for a living. (Poor you! But seriously, thank you for doing all of that...um, really important stuff that makes the world spin round. I appreciate that you do it, so I don’t have to!)   

So, I spent my days off at the beach (and, let's admit it, I landed there on the occasional hooky day too. Er, I mean "mental health" day, Boss!), many a night in the clubs, and I hobnobbed with Mickey Mouse and “Jungle Jack” Hanna (previous director of CFZ/current animal expert celebrity!). Living in Florida was a dream for this small town girl hell-bent on adventure.

And then, while minding my own business (and that of anyone daring enough to be near me...), I was knocked over the noggin' by a Frenchman and dragged by the hair to the frozen tundra of The Great White North. Or Canada, if you prefer. No matter what you call it, the result is still the same. I spend nine months a year shivering, and the other three defrosting. Twice I made a run for the border and got all the way to the sunny shores of my youth, when the Frenchman came after me and brought me back. So what if it was to pack my belongings for the move the first time, and to vacation the second? What I remember most are the sunbeams...and the final desperate flings I had with the Krispy Kreme donuts I'd cavorted with on the beach for 10 years before French Charming found me.

Ok, to be fair, I was in love. You would have fallen for those smiling eyes, the French accent, and the promise of pet penguins too! I didn't stand a chance and you know it. And yes, yes, he's the best thing that ever happened to me - yadee, yada, yada. I said I was in love, didn’t I?! Fine, I’ll admit it—the man’s a saint. Can we leave it at that? In the summer month - and okay, yes, the three beautiful weeks in autumn - I love living in Ottawa. It's beautiful, there's a lot of history, great architecture and culture, and the people here are So Nice! In those blessedly warm days, I am forced to admit how happy I am to live in the great country that is Canada. I'm living inside the dream of that 360-degree panoramic film at the Epcot Center. Oh, and the beer is even better here than home! Sorry, my fellow Americans, but it’s true.

But the days I'm shivering through temperatures that I’m now forced to use the metric system to measure, when I'm gritting my teeth and looking puffy in pictures wearing a coat (Only born and bred Canadians look adorable in those snowflake-infused snapshots they use to sell Canadian Winters...I can never get my bangs right with the tuque on, and don’t get me started on how many pounds a winter coat adds to you on film...)...on those days, French Charming must suffer endless tales of my reminiscences of warm white sand, frolicking in the ocean, and of course the glorious battles with sunburns at work after my hooky days on the beach. He has it coming, no? And when he suggests I learn to downhill ski, snow shoe, or ice skate in order to enjoy winter more, I ask him to bring me a cup of cocoa and to throw another log on the fire before he heads outside. I might even wish him luck in the snowball fight before I open another book, or pull my laptop closer for a snuggle.

There are no zoos in Ottawa, and even if there were, I would not make a good zookeeper here. I am certain it would be frowned upon if I pushed animals aside to keep warm in their hay. There’s the language barrier as well. Although I’ve managed to train The Charmings and associated friends to speak English to me, I’m finding other French Canadians less accommodating in meeting these needs (They’re so funny about the language!! You know there is an actual Language Patrol that measures the height of letters in French signs?! They’ve made laws about this stuff—business owners can get fines for posting small letters!). I would need to be bilingual in order to communicate with the other keepers/vets/curators/zoo guests. I was surprised to learn that asking people to sleep with me and cursing the Catholic Church in French (the first things that my darling, saintly French Charming taught me to say...) does not make me bilingual after all. Now my 6-year-old is teaching me my “Ah-Bay-Says” and colours.

I’ve given Mr. Charming three heirs...at the time of this writing, the firstborn prince is almost 9, the middle child, and future Queen of the Universe, is almost 7, and the baby princess is almost 4. It’s important to include the almost (or the “...and a half,” or the “just turned...”). Trust me, I know. It’s what I do now.

I run a daycare. In my home. You’re not the first (or second, third, or even fourth...) to make the immediate leap to how I’ve gone from taking care of one kind of monkey to taking care of another, but it still makes me giggle. Truthfully, it’s not all that much of a stretch. Poop? Check! Senseless chatter? Check! Playing with ill-advised objects? Check! Sticking everything in their mouths? Check! Wall-climbing/furniture shredding/mess making? Check, check, check. Pissing on countertops? You bet. I could go on, but you get the picture. Every day is filled with intrigue, potty runs, giggles, and, sometimes, tears (but when the kids pet my hair, hug me, and tell me it’s okay, I can usually stop crying...). As long as everybody uses their words, takes turns being first, and refrains from singing Barney songs, we get along just fine. (Yes, Barney is STILL popular among the 1 to 4-year-old sector! WHY haven’t we passed legislation to ban this purple varmit yet?! The Rascals are gone, Yosemite Sam is an official outlaw, and the Flintstones have been turned into gummy vitamins, but This Guy we still have to find in every book and video store?! It’s sick, I tell you.)    

You may think my life is pretty full—what with the attentive French Charming and three Little Charmings by my side, the influx of spare children dropped at my doorstep most mornings a week, and all that delicious Canadian beer to drink—but remember, Kind Reader:

I bore far too easily.

Therefore, I write. I dance. I read. I cuddle and wander and drink and love. I talk—A Lot—chasing friends as they back out of the driveway, babbling away, and yammering on the phone past midnight with the Far, Far Aways. Embracing the magic of Facebook, Twitter, email, and IMing, I talk. But through it all (and about it all), I write.

And I share. Here. So, ask me no question and tell me no lie, for what we share is a story in my eye!! Unless of course, you’ve asked me not to tell or threatened to revoke my laptopping licence...then your secrets are safe with me! (*wink, wink*)

No! No! Come back, please! There’s nothing you’ve said that a pseudo name or eye color change can’t cure! How about a location move? Fine! You’ve tested me, and won. I’ll only tell the part about the shackles, but not the rest. Promise!!

Whew! I thought I’d scared you off for real that time. Now, have a seat here next to me, let me get you a refreshing Canadian beer, and you can tell me about your day. Put your feet up, silly, and relax. That’s better. Now tell me, did you check out that festival you were talking about? How was the graduation ceremony yesterday? Did you cry? Did he? So what did your sister want when she called yesterday? It’s a long story? That’s okay...I have all the time in the world.

Here, have another beer.

Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything...