Don't Mess With the Zoo-han

Marlin Perkins died on June 14.

1986.

And that’s too bad.

Because if the host of Wild Kingdom was still with us.

I’d have the perfect location for his next show.

My backyard.

From my backyard you can hear the coyotes.

Sometimes see a deer.

A buck.

Or Elk.

(What’s the difference?)

Add our two dogs.

Loads of insects.

Plus a squirrel or four.

And you’ve got a show.

But wait there’s more.

A few days ago my wife and daughter were roaming around the backyard.

When they saw not one...

Not two...

But three..

SNAKES.

Ok, they were garter snakes.

The wuss of the snake family.

Which was perfect for me.

The wuss of my family.

The closest I ever got to a snake was when Ken Stabler was the quarterback for my Oakland Raiders.

But where I come from, a snake is a snake.

And I want no part of it.

Fortunately I wasn’t home for the first two sightings.

For snake #3, I stood by the door and watched my wife pick up the slitherer with a pair of tongs.

And fling it over the fence.

“THAT’S RIGHT... GET OUT,”  I yelled.

From behind the glass.

Unfortunately three was not enough.

A few days later snake #4 arrived.

And I was the only one home.

As my luck would have it, I had just locked myself out of the house by closing the back door.

In order to get back in, I had to walk to the front of the house.

And go through the garage.

As I took three steps toward the path to the garage.

There he was.

Staring at me.

Like the whale staring at George Costanza.

The backyard was angry that day, my friends.

Like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.

I got about three feet out and suddenly the great beast appeared before me.

I tell you he was ten stories high if he was a foot.

Ok, maybe he was six inches.

But still.

He was blocking my path to freedom.

So I backed up.

Slowly.

Went inside.

Grabbed those same tongs.

And airlifted the big fella into the next zip code.

Or 20 feet.

Whichever came first.

Thankfully I haven’t seen him since.

Thankfully for him, that is.

But that is far from the end of our backyard zoo.

A few weeks ago my seven-year old daughter noticed a bird building a nest.

The nest kept getting bigger.

And bigger.

And before you knew it, it was the full-time home for a momma.

And her brand new chicks.

Fortunately the nest is located in an area where it provided no challenges.

For us.

Or them.

So like John & Paul, we’ve just let it be.

I must say it is pretty darn cute watching the mama dropping fresh worms into the mouth of her babies.

My daughter loves it too.

So much so that she visits her new friends several times a day.

Well today she was outside visiting when we heard a shreek.

Seconds later she was in the house.

“You gotta see this,” she said.

So we headed out back.

Expecting the worse.

And what we found was bad.

Really bad.

Another bird, building another nest.

Inside our satellite dish.

Gasp!

“OH MY GRAVY,”  I thought.

What if I can’t record Glee?

Come on, a man can only be pushed so far.

So I went inside.

Grabbed a ladder.

And those same pair of tongs.

The ones with the rubber tips.

And I got ready for surgery.

I think it was my 12th grade Physics class that taught me.

Metal tongs on metal satellite dish = KABOOM.

So I inched up the ladder, with rubber tipped tongs in hand.

Got myself in position.

And started plucking away at the nest.

Snakes, Deer, Elk, Coyotes, Insects... fine.

Birds messing with my TiVo?

I don’t think so.

We sent the seven-year old inside.

Just in case there was something in the nest that she shouldn’t see.

Good move.

I pulled piece by piece away from the dish.

Like I was Patrick Dempsey inside a fake ER.

Then finally it was time to remove the biggest chunk.

The nest.

I reached in.

Got a good grip.

And yanked the sucker out of its resting spot.

Dropping it ten feet down to the ground.


Take that!!!

As the nest landed on the pavement.

You heard my wife gasp.

Seconds after you heard three eggs crack.

Like it was happy hour at Denny’s.

(I hope my daughter doesn't read this blog.)

Now I don’t take any pride in killing animals.

But a man’s got to do.

What a man's got to do.

To protect his family.

And his Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Fable Of My Deconstruction

“If I could lift my leg right now, I’d kick your....”

Well you can guess the rest.

Those were my exact words for my personal trainer after yesterday’s 45-minute session of muscular masochistic misery.

Now before you think I’m hangin with the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

There is no MY personal trainer.

But what I do have is three free sessions with A personal trainer.

That came with my month-to-month membership at a local gym.

A membership that costs me $50/month.

And is worth every penny.

Especially when you get free stuff.

And the philosophy of this club is to give a free sample of extra attention.

So that I get addicted.

And then I will start paying to feed that addiction.

Hey, why not.

It works for drug dealers.

And it works for Costco. 

Of course, if they charged me even one of those pennies for a personal trainer, I probably would’ve passed.

But it was free.

And who can turn down free?

Not me.

So as part of this new personal training mission, they had me take a series of tests to determine my physical well being.

And to make sure I didn’t expire during an ab crunch.

The tests were quick.

And simple.

A little treadmill.

Pull on this weight.

Reach as far as you can.

Tada.

The results are in.

And congratulations Sir.

You have the body of a 44-year old.

Not bad.

I suppose.

Considering I am 43.

And will be 44 in a few months.

But honestly, I would’ve hoped for a little better.

I don’t feel a day over 41.

But wait, there’s more.

At no extra charge, you get a five-page analysis of the test results.

And with that analysis, comes a dangling carrot on the last page.

IF I can improve my “sit and reach flexibility” by 2.5 inches, I would improve my body age by two years.

And IF I  my can improve my body composition by 8%, I would improve my body age by five more years.

And IF I can improve my bicep strength by 14 pounds, I would improve my body age by two more years.

And IF I can improve my cardiovascular VO2 score from 39.7 ml/kg-min to 47 ml/kg-min.

Whatever that means.

I would improve my body age by three more years.

Ok.

44, minus two minus five minus two minus three.

Whoa.

So if I buy a couple of months of personal training sessions... 

...my body age will be like negative 16.

By April?

Where do I sign?

Well I signed on the computer that’s where I signed.

For the first of three free sessions.

What do I have to lose?

Except a couple of pounds.

And what’s left of my dignity.

My personal trainer showed up at noon, right on time.

He had less body fat than one of those Old Navy mannequins.

And he took me to a part of the gym that I’ve never seen before.

I knew immediately I was in trouble.

About 12 seconds in, I was sweating more than Mel Gibson at a Passover Seder.

This guy had me doing lunges.

And leg lifts.

Push ups.

And squats.

Plus he introduced me to a bunch of new places.

The Roman Chair.

The Russian Kettlebell.

The Bosu Balance Trainer.

By this point, I was praying this torture would take an immediate detour.

To The Dairy Queen.

But every step of the way, this guy was giving me all of the  encouragement any out of shape 43-year old could hope for.

“Come on you fat f***,  just 73 more.”

Ok, that may not be an exact quote. 

But when you are literally one exhale away from passing out, “just two more” sounds like 73.

He must’ve asked me 40 times if I needed water.

And I must’ve answered 40 times.

"Huh?   What?"

Finally after 45-minutes, which felt like 45 days, this mercifully came to an end.

I used what little strength I had left to shake the man’s hand.

A man who had just tried to kill me.

But he wasn't done there.

It was then he reminded me of the two sessions I had left.

The two FREE sessions I had left.

Free?

Who could pass up a deal like that?

Not me.

Round 2 is on Monday.