I don’t think I mentioned that Gilberto and Gabi are in Brazil right now.

They’ve already been there a few weeks, and this is how we’ve been spending a lot of time!

Getting to see my baby’s face every few days has made the separation a lot more bearable.

Did you notice how we’re using phones?  That’s ghetto Skyping.  It’s what you do when you don’t want to invest any money in fixing a speaker/microphone issue.

Did you also notice the crooked pictures on the wall behind Gabi?  They drive me INSANE!  Every time I’m in Brazil I try to fix them, but for some reason they won’t straighten out.  I even tried to put clear tacks underneath the leaning corner to hold it in place, but the tacks wouldn’t go into the concrete.  It’s becoming a really lame life mission to get those pictures to behave.

I was stopped at a red light, staring absentmindedly into the distance, when my eyes flickered to the car driving past me.  And straight into the eyes of the woman driving.

I’ve waited at a million red lights, and I’ve never once made eye contact with anyone in the cars around me.  It’s a strange taboo, an awkward invasion of personal space, to look into someone’s car.

But there it was.  We were staring at each other.  And in a fraction of a second I realized this was not some random moment where we’d both accidentally looked at each other at the exact same time.  She was looking at me ON PURPOSE, and with a look of utter disgust.

Our eyes stayed locked even as she turned to drive past me.

I was a bit taken aback, and thought to myself, “What the heck is SHE looking at, ’cause I look great today!  WHATEVER!”  If I can muster anything to help in awkward situations, it’s indignation.

And then I realized that my hand was entwined in my armpit hair.

I had thrown my right arm up on the passenger seat next to me, and my left hand was ever so casually twisting armpit hair around my fingers.

Oh. My. God.  I slowly brought my arm down to my side, cheeks flaming.  I didn’t dare look around to see who else had noticed, choosing to stare straight ahead at the light, begging it to change so I could escape.

It was bad enough that I’d braved showing off my back fat in order to wear a tank top, something I only do when it’s desperately hot outside, but I hadn’t bargained for hairy armpits, too.  And it was way too hot to head home and change, since I’d already sweated buckets trying to get my uncooperative toddler into his car seat.  I couldn’t bear to do that all over again.

The light finally turned green and I continued on my way.

To Trader Joe’s.

For the rest of the ride, I tried giving myself a pep talk.  ”Laural, you can DO THIS!  Just keep your arms glued to your side.  CHIN UP!  ARMS TO THE SIDE!  And don’t forget!  DON’T FORGET!”

The next half hour was spent with me either looking like a robot penguin, trying to reach for things without my arms leaving my sides, or me totally forgetting to keep my arms down and flashing my hairy pits to all the innocent shoppers.

I also ran into TWO people I knew.  I did pretty good at hugging the first person without revealing anything, but the second attempt wasn’t as successful.  I can just imagine the conversation she had with her husband when she got home.

Friend: You should’ve seen the hair under Laural’s armpits today!

Friend’s Husband: She’s from the hippy part of Oregon.

Friend: Ahhh, that explains it.  Though I hope I never have to see that again.

When I got home and looked in the mirror, it was painfully obvious that keeping my arms down hadn’t been enough to hide that I had hairy armpits.  It’d been way too long since I’d shaved.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I wasn’t a dark brunette.  This is one time I might agree that blondes really do have more fun, because they can get away with unfortunate hair issues.  Not having to worry about chin hairs or the strip you missed on the front of your leg really frees you up to have a good time.

All I have to do is shave, but that means I have to remember to do it.  Since my brain is wrapped in a constant fog, I think I’ll have more luck if I just hide my tank tops until this heat wave is over.

Actually, it goes back a bit further than that, to our dryer vent getting clogged again.

For several reasons that are too long to go into, but involve my husband being suspicious of duct cleaning companies, we’ve been letting our dryer vent directly into the laundry room.  Which is also our pantry.

Along with all the lint, dryers also expel a lot of humidity.  Besides making our walls a bit mushy, it also dampened some of our food, and sent a bag of potatoes straight to hell.

Mom: You know that horrid smell in the kitchen I’ve been complaining about?

Me: Yes?

Mom: I found out where it was coming from. It was the potatoes!  Thank goodness they were in that plastic tub, because they were practically melted into goo.  But that’s not the worst part.  They were covered in MAGGOTS.

Me: Maggots?  Wha?

Mom: Yes!  I was dry heaving the whole time.  Everything got bagged up and put directly into the trash.

And then she dry heaved again at the memory.

I have never been more happy to have my mom living with us.  Bless her heart for being the one to find, and clean up, that mess.  It made having a cold and no sense of smell seem like a God send.

It also shed some light on the moths that had taken up residence in the pantry.

Me: I bet that’s where the moths are coming from!

Mom: Those things are really hard to get rid of.  I cleaned out the maggots, so I’ll leave the moths to you.

That seemed like a totally uneven trade.  In my favor.  So I just nodded and went to bed, thinking that it’d be an easy job to tackle the next day.  How hard could it be to get rid of a few moths, especially after their breeding grounds had been eliminated?  So far sucking them up with the Dustbuster had been working just fine.

A few days later the moth population had exploded, completely taking over the laundry room/pantry and overwhelming my vacuuming abilities.  I knew it was time to finally take care of business when I went in to change a load of laundry and got dive-bombed by hundreds of moths, several trying to enter me through my nostrils.  I sputtered and flailed my way out, shrieking to Gilberto to come help me.

Cleaning out that damn room was harder than I’d ever imagined.  Not only did we have to remove every item and wash every surface, we had to open up every single container to look for cocoons.  I opened a brand new box of cereal and a moth flew out, straight into my mouth.  If I come down with some weird disease in the next few months, it’s probably from that moment RIGHT THERE.

There were cocoons under cans, in boxes, in bags and in the cookbooks.  There were even a few inside the blender and coffee maker.  There must’ve also been some inside the back of the washer or dryer, because despite our efforts, within a few days the moths were back.

I do have a very nice looking pantry now, though.  Filled with hidden worms in cocoons, but nice looking all the same.

So now I’m thinking that my mom definitely got the better end of the deal.

And as for getting rid of the moths, perhaps fly tape will work?  Though I’m partial to bleaching that room from top to bottom and just buying a new washer and dryer.

And by focused I mean I spent 15 minutes imagining myself tucking that chunk of hair right back up into that banana clip.  It’s a good thing she was a few rows up, because I could feel my hand twitching and I don’t know what I would’ve done if she was within touching distance.  I’d probably be looking for a new church again.

I’m the kind of person that will tell you if your skirt is stuck in your underwear, if you have ink on your face or if you have noticeable wax build-up in your ear.  I’ve even pushed wayward tags back into clothing without asking.  Which I admit, may be going a bit too far, but I just can’t help myself.  It’s all because, if I was in the same situation, I’d want someone to tell ME.

If I have a hair hanging out of my nose, please tell me.

If my zipper is down, please tell me.  (A HUGE shout-out to Mel for doing this very thing at BlogHer, after I’d paraded my pants past a dozen tables full of women sitting with eyes at Underwear Peephole Level who didn’t say a thing.)

If my mascara is smudged underneath my eyes making me look dead, if my socks don’t match (or shoes, for that matter, which has already happened twice this year), or if I have food crusted to the front of my shirt, or stuck in my teeth, please tell me!

And I will do the same for you.

And I’m going to work on the telling before helping part.

I have a sick fascination with bear stories.

I hate blood and gore and terror, but wrap it up with a bear and I’ll take it any way you give it to me.    Just hearing the word bear makes the hair on my arms stand on end and my pulse quicken.  As long as I’m not directly involved, of course.

I have no logical explanation for the why of it, other than that my first seven years were spent in Alaska and I probably heard my fair share of bear stories in that time, imprinting a beastly esteem on me.

When I came across this tweet on Twitter, it was like I’d just discovered a delicious desert.

The whole close call with a bear part was enough to capture my attention, but the hashtag, that thrilling little addendum, alluded to a wonderful, hair raising story.  It did not disappoint!  In fact, FearfulGirl has a whole section on her blog dedicated to close calls while traveling, and they are a pretty awesome read.

My family has also had a few personal encounters with bears.

My Aunt had gone to visit some friends deep in the Alaskan wilderness, and while she was there a man who lived in a cabin on the other side of the lake ran up screaming for help. A bear had broken into their house and he and his wife had escaped through a second-story window onto the roof. His wife distracted the bear so he could jump down and run for help.

My Aunt’s friends grabbed their guns and headed to the cabin, but by the time they got there, the bear had found a way onto the roof and mauled the woman to death.

The rangers told them that the bear had probably smelled that it was the woman’s time of the month

How’s THAT for a bear story?  A good reminder not to live out in the middle of nowhere if you don’t like the possibility of getting eaten.  Just sayin’.

When Gabi was two, we went to Alaska to visit my dad, step-mom and little sister.  Gilberto was obsessed with seeing a bear, and luck was on his side a few nights in when we were woken up by a bear in the backyard going through the trash.

My dad stood to the side of the sliding glass doors with his gun as the bear climbed up the steps to the deck.  We  huddled in the living room, Gilberto excited beyond belief, me frozen in terror.  A pane of glass will not stop a determined bear, and it was my time of the month.  I just KNEW that bear was going to break into the house and eat me, just like what happened to that poor woman on the lake.

I obviously survived.  Luckily the bear didn’t see, or, ahem, smell anything of interest, and moved on down the road.

So while I love talking about bears, and hearing about bears, I do not like putting myself in the paths of bears.  No more camping for this girl.  Not even in a camper.  A bear would have no problem prying that thing open like a sardine tin and plucking us out one by one.

Do you have any exciting or scary animal encounters?

A friend of a friend was stopped at the mall and told that she was a horrible mother for having her twin toddler sons on leashes.  She was so shocked and upset that she didn’t say a thing.

I WISH that would happen to me so I could open a can of whoop-ass on the busybody stupid enough to meddle in my business.  I’d send her home crying.

Chasing after one toddler is hard enough, let alone TWO of them.  And even if you’re eagle eyeing your kid while firmly grasping their hand, when a toddler’s attention gets distracted by something, they suddenly have super human strength and can rip their hand from yours and be 100 feet away in a matter of seconds.  Parents of twins know that means two kids running in opposite directions.

And screw the whole psychological aspect of it.  That poor kid is more likely to be messed up from a stranger berating his mom in public than from being held back by a leash from running away and/or reeking havoc.

So kudos to any parent that feels they need to use a leash to keep their children safe, because they know their child’s antics better than some old bat walking by at the mall.  Better safe than sorry.

John Lennon with son Julian

Photo Booth 

When I tweeted this:

I was referring to this:

The thing about photo booths is that the flash goes off whether you’re ready for it or not.  And keeps going off until one of you ends up bent over, clutching her stomach and totally out of the very last picture, while the other clasps her hands to her chest in an effort to get a breath in through the hee-hawing.

We emerged from the booth laughing like hyenas, stumbling over our waiting bags because we couldn’t see through the tears streaming down our faces.

A Pfizer rep rushed over and asked to film us, and we stupidly said yes, even though our hair was sticking to our wet cheeks and I was wielding a roll of toilet paper that I’d managed to dig out of my purse to help us mop up our running makeup.

When we finally recovered, we noticed that everyone on the floor within viewing distance was staring at us.  Including the guy holding out our pictures.

Me: You must see this all the time!

Guy: No, not really.

He gave us an unamused smile and turned back to staring at the wall across the floor.  Which makes me wonder what exactly that video is going to be used for!  Like, printing out a still and playing Pin The Tail On The Idiots.

Trapped In An Elevator

I walked onto the elevator and recognized the name on the badge of the guy in the corner.

Me: Oh!  HEEEYYY!  I follow you on Twitter!

Him: Cool!

Me: Yeah, my husband is Brazilian and we travel a lot, and I love your travel suggestions.

Him: I don’t write about traveling.

Me: Um, oh.  You don’t write about traveling with your kids?

Him: Uh, no.

Blank looks.  Blinking.

Me: I guess I have you confused with someone else.

Him: Yep.

What do you do at that point?  Turn and face the doors, hiding your badge with your purse so he can’t get a look at who you are, and wait in awkward silence all the way up to your floor, where you saunter off the elevator, trying to walk slowly so he won’t think you have a care in the world, even though you both know you just made an ass of yourself.

I found out later that he’s HUGE in the blogging world.  I think I was the only person at the conference who didn’t know who he was.  I do now.

Mistaken Identity

As I was leaving a media event I saw a friend from across the room, bending over a pile of paperwork.  I ran up to her, yelling, “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I didn’t see you before now!  When did you get here?”  My friend turned and we gave each other a really big hug.  As I pulled away and saw her face, I realized, it was NOT my friend.  In fact, I’d never seen this person before in my life.

Her: Oh, I know!  It’s so good to see you!  My plane got in a little late so I slipped in after it started.

I could see her trying to sneak a look at my nametag.  She didn’t know who I was, either!

Me: It’s so good to see you, too!  Hey, I have to run out for a minute, but we’ll catch up later!

Her: Okay! Sounds great!

I escaped out of the room and hid in the bathroom until I could figure out a way out of my mix-up.  I really had to give her credit for going with the flow!  I decided to go the honesty route, but when I walked back by the room, she was gone.

Two nights later I was at a party when someone grabbed my arm.  That someone being HER!

Her: Hey!  How’re you doing?1  Isn’t this a great party?

Me: Yeah!  Hey, I have to admit something to you.  I thought you were someone else when I went up to you the other day, and you were so kind to pretend that you knew me, too!  I actually don’t know who you are!

Her: Don’t you remember me?  We met at lunch yesterday.

Me: No, you mean the media conference.  It was the day before yesterday!

Her smile started to fade.

Her: We sat next to each other at the catered lunch yesterday?  I’m from the humor site?

And then I realized, the woman I was talking to was, in fact, the person I’d sat next to at lunch the day before and NOT the woman I had pretended to know from two days prior.

Me: Oh my gosh!  YES!  I’m so sorry, I’m at the point where everything is starting to blend together.  Ha ha ha.

I waved my drink inbetween us, hoping that she’d think I was a little tipsy and attribute my mess-up to too much alcohol.  Never mind that my drink didn’t have an ounce of alcohol in it.

Her: Hmmm.  Yeah.  Have a good one.

I slinked away, straight to the sides of my friends, who all died laughing when I told them what had happened.

I just have to say, that my friend and these two women are all the same height and build, and have the same hair, so it was only half my fault for mixing them all up.

Hummus Shirt

On my way to the sponsor suites with the above mentioned Michelle from Muffin Tin Mom, we passed by a snack table.  Of course we had to stop and fill up our plates with pita chips and dips.

As we were walking, Michelle got a glimpse of my back and started freaking out.

Michelle: Laural!  NOOO!  OH NO!

Me: Oh my God, Michelle, what’s WRONG?

I had no idea what she was referring to, except that it had to do with my backside, and it must be BAD.

Me: DID MY PANTS RIP?  Michelle, OH MY GOD YOU HAVE TO TELL ME, did my pants rip?

Michelle: No!  Oh, Laural, it’s WORSE!

I was seriously starting to panic.  If it wasn’t a rip in the booty, it was probably a cockroach crawling on me!  Or a snake!

Me: WHAT IS IT?

Michelle: You have hummus smeared all over the back of your shirt!

Not a rip and not a creepy crawly, thank goodness, but hummus isn’t the prettiest thing to have smeared all over you.  And it doesn’t have the most pleasant smell, either.  And I wasn’t going to be able to go back to my room to change for at least a few more hours.

Just as we were stepping into a bathroom so Michelle could try to get the worst of it off with paper towels, Jessica Bern walked by.  Now here was a person who’d appreciate an embarrassing predicament!

Me: Jessica!  I have hummus smeared all over the back of my shirt!

Jessica: What?

Me: Look!  There’s hummus all over the back of my shirt!  And I have no idea how it got there!  Isn’t that CRAZY?

Jessica: What are you talking about?  I don’t see anything at all.

And she kept on walking.  My attempt to connect over adversity had totally backfired.

When I finally stood in front of the mirror with Michelle at my back, I noticed I had guacamole down the front of my shirt as well.

There were so many more funny moments, like when Maegan from Beyond the Bandaids had a leafy green wrapped around her entire tooth, making it look like there was a gaping hole right in the front of her mouth, and all I could do was laugh and point as she asked, “What?  What?” and showed us that tooth over and over again.  I can’t list them all or you’d never get to the end.

Suffice to say, BlogHer ’11 was a huge success, laughter wise.  And I wouldn’t change a thing (as long as Elevator Guy doesn’t figure out who I am).

Me: No, that’s just my arm fat.

Sister: No, look at this band of skin.  It’s swollen!

Me: No, seriously, it’s just arm fat.  It’s, um, a bit thicker there, you see.

Sister: Oh!

I had just gotten home from a long day at the beach, and while my t-shirt had done it’s job and protected my shoulders, my lower arms and chest were bright red.  I couldn’t feel any pain yet, but I could tell by looking in the mirror that I was up shit creek.  Besides the pain that I knew was on the way, I had a big conference to go to in a few weeks and a Farmer’s Tan wasn’t exactly the look I was going for.

Sure enough, one week later I was sporting dark brown arms that abruptly ended about six inches below my shoulders, where my blindingly white Irish coloring took over.  It was so bad, I came downstairs in my white bra, and my husband didn’t notice I was shirtless until he gave me a hug and felt skin under his hand.

I had just found a really awsome maxi dress to wear to the conference, and my husband’s laughter made it pretty clear  I was going to have to do something about my multi-colored arms.  Besides the whole farmer’s tan issue, white fat is much less attractive than tan fat; I needed to even that shit out.

I knew I couldn’t go the self tanner route because BEEN THERE, DONE THAT with disastrous results, so I decided it’d be best to get a Mystic tan.

First, do not wait until the day before a big event to get spray tanned.  There just won’t be enough time to fix any issues that arise.  Like turning to look at something behind you and sticking your chin to your shoulder, transferring all the tanner to your neck and turning yourself from one golden color to three.

You will sweat while trying to pack and wrangle kids and keep the house somewhat clean, and that sweat will smear dye in weird patterns around your body, removing color all-together from your creases, crooks and crannies.

You also won’t have time to wash your sheets, which have turned brown from your skin rubbing against them, when you get up in the morning and are frantically throwing all the last minute stuff into you suitcase before taking off.  You’ll get home after four days and crawl into bed, only to discover that your husband apparently didn’t have the time to change the sheets, either.

Second, don’t wear underwear with holes in them if you are going to have someone do the spraying manually.  That is, if you want to keep your undies on.

Salontress: Okay, I’ll leave and you can strip down.

Me: Strip?  You mean, get naked?

Salontress: Well, yes!

Me: Oh!  I just want to get my upper body done.  So should I just pull down my straps?

Salontress: Hon, if you do this, you’re gonna want to do this right!

Me: Oh.  So, just to clarify, completely naked?  It’s just, well, I don’t think I’m ready to share that much fat with you.

Salontress: Fine, you can leave your undergarments on, but they are going to get browned.  Hon, I have seen myself all sorts of bodies, so don’t you fret.

She may have seen all sorts of bodies, but I doubt she’s seen holey granny panties and a sweat soaked bra.  I kept my skivvies on, holes and all, and marked off one more salon I can never go to again.

So if you are at BlogHer and see me, please come say hi even though I look like I have a skin disease.

Have you ever picked up a food product that had a giant ORGANIC stamped on the front, only to turn it over and discover that the ingredient list is anything but?  Navigating the sea of organic labeling can be so confusing that a lot of people abandon their efforts to eat organically, some even chalking up the whole organic movement to a scam.

The thing is, those people are on to something.  I’m a huge advocate of eating organic and supporting organic farming, but if I didn’t know what I do about labeling, I’d most likely be a skeptic, too.  But real organic food IS out there!  There are several things you need to know about how organic food is labeled, and the legal definition of words that are used on food products, in order to ensure that what you’re buying is, indeed, organic. 

Once you know the tricks of the trade, shopping for organic food is a breeze. 

USDA Labeling

The most obvious way to tell if a food item is truly organic is to look for the USDA Organic label.  Luckily the United States has a rigorous qualification system that regulates what can be labeled with the word “organic”, and the USDA Organic label is what shows that the product is conforming to those strict regulations. 

For one-ingredient items, like produce, the identifying sign may use the word “Organic”, and each individual item can bear the USDA Organic seal, usually in the form of a sticker.     

For items that contain more than one ingredient, like a box of cereal, there are three categories where the USDA allows for the word “organic” to be used in labeling.

1) 100% Organic: Foods with this label are made with 100% organic ingredients and may display the USDA seal. Salt and water are not included.  These products may display the USDA Organic seal.   

2) Organic: These products contain at least 95 – 99% organic ingredients (by weight). The remaining ingredients are not available organically but have been approved by the National Organics Program.

3) Made with Organic Ingredients: Food with this label must contain 70 – 94% organic ingredients. These products are not allowed to use the USDA Organic seal; instead, they may list up to three organic ingredients on the front of the packaging.  

Any food item made with less than 70% organic ingredients can only use the word organic in their ingredients list.  These products will not bear the USDA Organic seal. 
 
It’s All In The Wording

Since use of the USDA Organic seal is voluntary, you don’t have to look far to find companies that try to trick consumers with misleading packaging. 

1) Company Name: There are no rules regarding what words a company can use in their name, so it’s important to watch out for companies using the word “Organic” or “Organics” in their name, which they display on their product in a way that misleads consumers into thinking that the product is organic when it is not.  If you see the word “organic” on the front label and it’s not obvious if it’s a part of the name, do a quick check of the nutritional panel to see if the ingredients are organic.  If not, it’s simply a naming ploy.

2) Natural: The terms “natural” and “all natural” have absolutely no meaning in the United States from a legal standpoint, as the USDA has no rules when it comes to using “natural” on food packaging.  Companies take advantage of this, hoping that unsuspecting consumers will think their product is organic and not look at the ingredients list. 

What shopping for organics comes down to is looking for the USDA Organic seal, checking the ingredients list and shopping for your food at places that you trust.  My favorite place to get organic food is at the Farmers Market, but I also love to shop at natural food grocery stores.  Not only are they more likely to carry truly organic food items, the staff is usually quite knowledgeable about organics and can answer your questions and offer alternatives.

Also keep in mind that the USDA Organic certification process is an expensive one, and many farmers abide by the rules but simply can’t afford to get certified.  You can find these growers at Farmers Markets by their “No Pesticides, No Sprays” signs, or by asking, and once familiar with their names, you might start to notice them in your local stores.

With a little bit of effort and knowledge, you can find the organic food that you’re looking for.

I’ve always been a little torn about our love of the circus.

We go to see acrobats, tightrope walkers, giant bicycles, flying trapeze artists, silly clowns, strongmen, elaborate costumes, optical illusions and shooting flames.  We go to feel the danger and the excitement as gravity is defied, for the glow-in-the-dark twirlers and plastic red noses, and to see the magnificent animals.

It’s that last little part that’s kept me on edge.  Yay for the circus!  Not so yay for their reputation with how they care for their animals.

Circuses have been the target of animal rights activist groups for decades, and it’s hard to look past the undercover videos and pictures that have surfaced showing terrible conditions and abusive training techniques.  While things seem to have gotten better, perhaps from all the attention, it’s hard to know exactly what’s going on behind the scenes since there are no national regulations regarding training.

So I accepted an invitation by the Ringling Bros. for a behind-the-scenes tour of their Animal Open House and to see their opening night performance.  I thought it’d be a good opportunity to see the animals up close and get a better idea of how they’re treated.

I have to admit, the tour was exciting.  We saw gorgeous horses, including a miniature pony, zebras, Asian elephants and Bengal tigers.  The highlight of our tour was watching Assa the elephant getting her daily bath.

The animals seemed well cared for, and the trainers were gentle with them.  The trainers even rush to put tubs under the elephants when they pee to keep the area clean!  We learned that Ringling Bros. has a Center for Elephant Conservation for breading and retirement, which provides information to people around the world on animal husbandry.

We returned later that night for the actual circus show, and it was just as fantastic and magical as it could be.  My favorite parts of the evening were when a man was shot out of a cannon ON FIRE, the Chinese Troupe on bouncy stilts (oh, how I want bouncy stilts!) and the Russian Acrobats, who did over 300 flips, jumps, rolls and leaps on an 80 foot tumbling track!

Gabi’s favorite parts were the clown acts, the Brazilian dancers (who she got to speak Portuguese with before the show) and, of course, the elephants.

The animal acts were impressive, but I was happy to see that their presence didn’t dominate the show.  Their overall short stage time combined with what I saw in the Animal Open House is giving me hope that things have finally turned around in regards to their care and handling.

If you are in the San Diego area, the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Baily Circus will be here through Sunday with their all-new show, Fully Charged.  If you live elsewhere, check out their tour schedule to see if they will be traveling near you.  Ninety minutes prior to each show you are able to visit the Animal Open House, too, and you can form your own opinion on how they’re being cared for.

The best part of the whole evening was when Gabi looked up at me and asked, ”Mommy, what culture is THIS?”  I had a good laugh before I told her, “Circus culture, honey.  They are a culture all their own.”