Things Are Never Boring With Me Around

Yesterday, we went to one of our favorite (read: fun and cheap) places of entertainment - McKee's petting zoo. The kids love it, and, I'll admit, so do I. I just love critters of all kinds. I especially love the little baby animals. Sometimes the older ones freak me out. The camel that they used to have, Lucy, tried to bludgeon me to death with her giant head, but that's a story for another time.

Last night, I was admiring all of the baby goats. They have so many and they're super cute. I was crouched down, petting a baby goat that couldn't have been more than a week old. There was a little girl standing a little behind and to the side of me. I could tell that she was a little bit scared to pet the animals, so I was showing her how nice they were. (If you know me at all, you can probably guess where this is headed.) The kid, the goat, not the human, started sucking on my finger. I said something to the little girl like "See, he thinks that I'm his mama and that he can get milk from my finger." The little girl moved closer to the goat, appearing to be considering trying to actually touch the animal. The little goat turned his head toward the girl, which twisted my finger in his mouth.

We interrupt this story for a little-known bit of trivia: goats don't have top front teeth. They do, however, have very sharp molars on both the top and bottom, even when they are as young as a week old.

As he turned his head, my finger brushed against his molars and he bit down, hard.

In my defense, I didn't scream as loud as you would expect a mauled zoo patron to scream. But it was enough to startle the little girl away from me. I won't be surprised when I receive bills from her therapist in 20 years.

I tried to fix the damage my scream had done to the little girl by quickly reaching back in to pat the little jerk's - I mean, goat's - head, saying that he really was nice, but the damage was done. The girl and her mother moved on to find gentler animals with less zealous admirers.

I gathered up my children, trying to hide the tears which were welling up in my eyes and the blood which was pooling on my finger. We found Morgan, who did what you would expect from any supportive husband - he laughed at me.

On the drive home, he kept glancing over at me examining my finger and he would chuckle. I even got some pictures of the carnage on my phone, but I'm unable to send the picture to my email right now. I'll update with it later. At one point he turned to me and asked "Why does this stuff always happen to you?"

I replied, "I guess because I'm the one stupid enough to put my fingers in the mouths of unfamiliar animals."

"No, I mean, getting knocked unconscious by a bag of frozen marinara sauce, accidentally stealing someone's windshield wiper, hitting a horse with your car, losing a snake in your car, freezing yourself to the inside of our freezer - you're the only person that I know that has stuff like this happen to them."

I pondered for a few minutes. Why does weird stuff always happen to me? I can only think of one thing.

"I guess that God knows that I wouldn't be satisfied with a boring life."