first the sun, then goodbye
October 25, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
9:45pm
First Tuesday sunrise in the world.
Nothing was stopping me from writing tonight, other than my desire to wait until tomorrow so I could; write the night before we leave here, summarizing my time here on the Coromandel Peninsula, and capture the journal writing wet dream of having dinner at the Germans for their son’s 5th birthday party.
But.
Tomorrow night will be hectic enough without me trying to squeeze some writing in and c’mon, once you have captured the dreamy moment of watching a husky fraulein being milked by her toddler son while her gap-toothed, I am faking not understanding you, pony-tailed husband stands, nods, and smiles, there is simply no where left to go, besides, the last three days is jammed enough to offer you, my loyal reader, and me, the loyal writer a couple of good paragraphs to entertain us both.
Sunday morning erupted here with a blaze of sun and a sky so blue and spread out you couldn’t imagine it raining anywhere else in the world. It was our Cathedral Cove day, and the weather offered us the perfect canvas in which to paint or family adventure. Cathedral Cove is a naturally formed cove right on the beach about an hour north of our home, and a solid 45-minute walk from the parking lot. A very full parking lot. A wait for someone to leave to get a spot parking lot. It was the Sunday of a long weekend here in NZ, their Labour Day, and the first dash of sunshine for the North Island in a long time. We knew that going in, we expected the crowds, and were not going to let it squish our day at all. So with blanket, a picnic lunch and an armful of blonde boy we made our way down the path that wove in and out, up and down a cliff to get to the Cove and the beach surrounding it. The sign said 45 minutes, but we know what that means with a now over-confident boy who shows his little truck to every single person within a ten foot diameter from Steph, and me, the balding pack mule with bags and blankets hanging off all appendages. Well. Not all.
So about 70 minutes later we reached the beach and Cove.
What can I say? The Cove was only kind of cool, an open cave that the surf broke right inside of, making it almost impossible to get to the less crowded beach during high tide. The tide was on its way out though, so we decided to go the crowded side, eat our sandwiches and contemplate the cross when the water receded. The crowded beach was still magic; huge boulders, a trickling of water down the cliff you could stand under (Hud did) and view of the ocean peppered with small islands as far as the dusty eye could see.
On crowded beaches, if you get a little spot, spread your shit out enough, it always feels not as crowded. Everyone knows everyone is trying to soak in the sand and sun and surf, so one gets in each other’s space too bad. Although after my exercise in drunken snide writing the previous night, my stomach was gurgling as each whiff of the group of Brits in front of us cigarette smoke drifted up my nostrils. But we accidentally chose a spot very close to the one bathroom, so all was good.
I went swimming. I was so happy. It’s been since the end of August in Waiheke that I last braved the about 65-67 degree water, only because the air was colder. With the sun shining high in the sky, I walked directly into a big wave, never once pausing to shiver or give my testicles a chance to talk me out of dunking them in, one by one by one.
We ate our lunch and Hud just whipped around, never once cowering in our legs or hiding his face as the smokers smiled with their googly eyes and tiny bikinis. Suddenly their was a murmur in the crowd down the beach, I looked up and out to the ocean and low and behold, there it was, a fucking killer whale, rolling in the water, about 40 ft off shore, showing both it’s dorsal fin and then it’s much bigger side fin.
Awesome. I quickly grabbed the camera and got some ok pictures of the pod of five killer whales swimming up the coast, emerging every ten seconds or so to give all us gawkers a story to tell. Add Orca to the list. Amazing.
After the whales, Steph and I woo hooed and high fived and agreed now was the time to try and cross to the less crowded side through the Cove. I went first with our crap, and timed it so water only went up to my thigh. Next up Hud. I put him on my shoulders and we emerged unscathed and unsoaked by the pounding surf on the other side. I placed Hud down and went back to check on Steph, who I thought was right behind me. Just as I approached the corner, here comes Steph, running when walking would do, and stepping into an underwater hole I kind of forgot to tell her about. She goes down. Knapsack gets soaked, pants in her hand drenched, but, and here is when it gets tragic, the Gucci sunglasses fall into the swirling white surf. Arrrgh!! Steph is devastated, because immediately it is hopeless, three foot high waves are crashing into the rocks, a small but steady rip pulling the water back into the ocean. Those pricey specs are long gone.
We start to get out of the water to get Hud, who is running around on the beach like an crab. Steph says one last look and wades out about ten more feet. She looks down, and in only the moment between wave and rip tide, she is able to dip her fingers in the four-foot of ocean and snatch out her now infamous glasses. You could not find a happier woman on that beach. The Gucci’s now have a story to tell.
After more swimming we left, the walk back to the car much quicker with a more determined son, who also rode my shoulders a bit of the way. Cathedral Cove. Check.
Sunday night was spent across the street for a BBQ and Ross and Sandy’s house, more retirees, but this time Tina, the daughter and her partner were there with their two kids, a five year old boy and a seven year old girl. It is difficult to say it was more pleasant then the previous night, but definitely more our speed, as both the older and younger generation were more our type of people. The only thing I mean when I say something like that is they get my jokes. You want to be a friend of mine for life? Get my jokes. Don’t just laugh at them. Get them. I know the difference and they are not that complicated. So the evening was full of fattening food and more bottles of wine. This time everyone at the table got a chance to tell a good story, not one of them just ignoring and waiting for their turn either. I can’t stand that. Everyone was polite and mildly charming and quirky enough to be interesting. Hud of course had a super time with the kids. Such a beam he has when mucking up with other kids, wrestling or jumping on beds. It’s like he is blushing because he is having too much fun.
Monday Morning. A pig farm. Yep. Pig Farm. This was Steph’s gig and I was coaxed out of bed to go much to my lazy reluctance. It was only a ten minute drive away but I thought it was just a coffee talk with Philippine woman and her 16 month old son. Steph got me to come because her husband Tony was there and would give us all a tour of the farm.
When we arrived, our host greeted us at the end of a circular drive, in front of her very nice bungalow style house. In back were wire fences, blocking off a narrow section of land. A medium sized group of barns sat lonely at the other end. Immediately I was led to the garage to meet Tony and a friend of his Mario, who was visiting to work out with Tony. So Tony and Mario are in the garage working out. You would think this was a gym at College and Clinton. But no, Tony was from NZ and Mario was from Slovakia. So my immediate mafia jokes were dashed and chucked to the back of the brain. But holy mother of god were this guys in good shape. Tony, who looks like actor John C. Reilly, looked as tight and hard as a lug wrench, biceps like two oranges trapped under his skin, and to top off the perfect image, a mouth full of gold teeth. He looked like the kind of guy that stands behind the boss punching his leather fist into his palm; making you weep like a sad little girl because you don’t have the money you owe him. Mario, is just under 6’5” and not as tight and hard, but pretty close. He has a round eastern European face with the slight trace of Mongol in the eyes. Basically he looks like a KGB drone that uses the same wire to cut his soft cheeses as he did to garrote prisoners refusing to accept communism as a way of life. They both shook my hand with a steely grip. I am a writer I managed to squeak out as I sucked my unsuckable stomach into my body. What are you writing they asked? How to not pee your pants in situations like this I thought.
I did tell them. They thought it was interesting and they were perfectly nice guys. Mario was training with Tony for fun, as he was actually a real estate agent. He even had the Mercedes with his name on the plate. I should have known he was in real estate. His success must strictly lie in the intimidation factor. I would have bought a castle from him if he wanted.
So before the pigs, we met the dogs. This included pig herding dogs, which our either bullies, or other breeds that can scare big pigs back to the stalls. The other dogs Tony had were pig hunting dogs. I had never even heard of such a breed. These dogs were a greyhound, pit bull something else cross which are specifically designed for the vetting out the wild pig scent, then chasing and pinning them until their owners arrive. They will follow and track a scent a kilometre away and one dog can hold down a 100 pound pig.
The key for the hunter, who hunts with a knife, is to get to the pig before the dog has completely maimed it. These dogs will kill the pigs, and I believe, sometimes, the pigs will kill the dogs. The pigs are dangerous with razor sharp tusks and bursts of speeds that rival horses. These men. These dogs. These pigs. Different worlds. Thank goodness for words.
The rest of the time was spent touring the farm and then sitting down for a coffee. Tony was pretty quiet. I asked him if he was raised on a farm, and he was not, raised in a city, but always wanted to be a farmer. Probably a pretty interesting dude. Said he hated killing the pigs he raised. Part of the job. Yet he hunted wild pigs and slit their throats with big knives. And I complain when my steak is too tough.
The rest of Monday was spent at Onemana Beach. Where me met up with the kids and the Sandy from the previous night’s dinner.
I swam there as the weather continued to be perfect. Dinner was peanut chicken and followed a solid sleep. Busy times again for us.
Today I went to play centre with Steph and Hud. It was great. The place is set up with between six and eight stations of fun. Painting, water play, bikes and trikes, swings, all with individual designs on helping and developing the mental and motor skills of kids ages 1-5. I was very impressed. It’s all run by the parents, with a small government subsidy, and donations and fundraisers adding wherever it can. It seems like a great alternative for preschool or day care. The mothers just have to be there, which is sometimes the problem for a lot of families.
Tonight we went for dinner at another couple that Steph met at play centre. They have three kids, including a three year old that plays with Hud very well. These are the type of people we would hang out if we lived here. Funny, beers and wines, good food, loved to play as much as they loved to work, and loved their kids with all their hearts. It was nice and we will try to hook up with them on the way back up to Northland, but it will never happen, but it was the right thing for everyone to say. We felt like friends immediately and already we are saying goodbye.
That is basically our mood about leaving here. Bittersweet. A community opened up to us and we jumped right in. Just like we wanted to. The experience we are seeking is not just looking at endless beaches and giant rock formations and hills and hills of green. It’s meeting all the different type of people that make a country what it is, gives it its flavour, whether it be a perfectly harmless chatterbox living next door, or a German woman who breastfeeds for her own comfort, or the buff guy who slits throats for food and fun, or the perfectly normal couple who could be us in a couple of years and a couple of kids.
A mix of the inane, the inappropriate, the insane and the inseparable.
Sure it’s like anywhere else in the world. But I am not anywhere else.
I am here. In New Zealand.
For real.
We are off line until at least November 3, after a week on a farm outside of Napier and then in Wellington for a couple of days.
I will keep writing and post large when I can.
Time to pack.
Love to all,
J.
Tony has an easy tell
October 22, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
9:23pm.
The bookend post. With beverages in between. Giddy up liquor pony.
Liquor? You liquor, you brought her.
That last sentence was brought to you by my excellent friend Tony, who, with all the gumption and moxy in the world, has decided to fly halfway across the world to visit us in fairyland. December 28th. The posts will be drunker for that blurry week. What a stud. What a dude and friend. Thank god for frequent flyer miles. Thank god for an Italian with a huge heart and nothing better to do with his vacation time.
Where does one plaid shirt wannabe writer start? Is it the quilt and craft show? Is it the massive birthday party for a three-year-old whose family Steph met at the religiously based twice-monthly MOPS meetings? Or is the dinner at Carol and John’s, with closet fan Anthony dedicating his entire visit to spending time with Hudson?
I will go linear, because I am organized, and I crossed the 200-page barrier earlier today. 201 baybee. It’s balls and nuts gravy now. The story is written; the rest is just sunshine and applesauce and feathered hair and ice cubes that go chink. Here’s to you Dex and Owen and Tommy. Your episodic life is making my life better.
This is the point where my mother thinks to herself….oh Charlie…is Jason high for this or what…
I used Charlie in my novel today. A sad time in his life, and well respected by my words. He will understand why I included it. Write what you know, sage advice I have read and heard everywhere. It’s amazing how much I love him. Not amazing then, during the bulging bullet head phase, but certainly amazing now. Chuck, Christine… we are all lucky.
Enough of the reaching out. Enough of the pounding fingers just to see what it looks like on white screen. Just enough of the mandatory preamble before I groove into what actually happened on this Saturday in Whangamata on the North Island of New Zealand.
I wrote this morning. I needed to fill the week as Friday was mixed with silent pleading of accompaniment from Steph and lack of motivation from me. So, after my waking up with Hud, after my green hill walk, I disappeared into the bedroom, put the headphones on and transitioned into my novel. Two hours later I emerged with my chapter finished, my weekly goal exceeded by 1400 words and my eight-week goal of 200 pages passed, looking over my shoulder like Ben Johnson at Carl Lewis in Seoul. I did it. 170 pages in eight weeks.
I am a two thirds done my novel and the end seems easy to me now. Is it good? Oh god no…it’s pure emotional tripe, its cloying and histrionic and preys upon every frayed nerve you may have. Will it be better? Of course. I could write 100 pages and whittle it down to one. The key is if the one page is good. Or good enough really. I still think no matter how crap my novel will be, with the minds I know, we could market this into best selling territory. Let my motely crue of fuckers exhaust all their misguided energies to making me famous. I promise I will pay you all back with dedications. Dedications and fat glasses of rye. You think I am lying? Let me prove it to you.
First up? Quilt show. Yes. I traveled ninety hundred thousand miles to attend craft and quilt shows.
Here I thought it was tandem skydiving and plummeting off of bridges with a giant rubber band attached to my prostate. Nope. I am walking along walls and walls of various quilts with a small piece of paper in my hand, ready to plop the number assigned to the quilt I think is the best, so they can win…win what?...yes…the most liked quilt prize. I am the academy. This is the quilt Oscars. If only there were acceptance speeches….
I would like to thank my quilting group…who, without their constant sniping and support I would never been able to add that last stitch, that last cut out moon, that last letter of the alphabet…I thank you needle one, I thank you boring Edna next to me…without you…I am a limp needle.…
I voted for the quilt least likely to get stained during really wet sex. What can you do? I am an enigma. I am a perv ensconced in quilts. Combine a quilt and sex show and I could headline. I would wear a quilted thong. And the blue hairs would cheer until their teeth fell out. Believe it.
Next up? Birthday party. This is where it could get weepy. Not a surprise for all those following the week kneed faggot that is myself.
My son. What a boy. It is hard, even for someone like me, who thinks absolutely in words now, to describe the difference in Hudson from the time we arrived here in Onemana eight weeks ago, to now, four days before we leave. This is a boy, upon arriving in the driveway, was greeted by Carol, our talkative neighbour, and preceded to hide his face behind his tiny palms and sit behind my calves until she left. Now, at this party of over 40 kids, ranging in age from 2 months to 8 years, he got up and danced with the other select brave few, and smiled a thousand watts like his name was being engraved in a star on the Hollywood walk of fame. His shyness is gone. His oppressive timid, submissive, flighty. flaky waves of torment have dissipated like smoke in a windstorm. He is a shiny, talkative, polite, beautiful blonde boy of three, who looks and acts like he is five.
He stands up in a group and the clouds break to let the sun shine down on him.
It has so much to do with the mother he has been blessed with.
If he were a rock in a rock bed he would be spackled in gold.
If he were a convict, the warden would lock him solitary out of instinct, fearing his glow would instill too much hope in the rest of prisoners.
He is the fifty-cent piece in the chocolate money cake.
He is sweet, and friendly, and polite and giving and pushes back sometimes when he gets pushed, and bounces around like a omnipotent super ball and then hugs my leg just for being the dad that watches instead of eating chips. And I love chips.
We left at five. All of us sighing when we pulled away from the little community centre where the party was held.
Last stop…Carol and John’s for dinner. Anthony was there and he specifically wanted his mother to return the dinner party favour and have us over. We agreed and went over around six, about fifteen minutes after arriving home from the birthday party. Carol greeted us at the door with a dramatic hello, like we just got back from the jungles of Africa, when we really we just crossed the street. She led us into the nicely decorated living room and sat us down. Anthony was in the kitchen, pulling the apps together with his flimsy wrists. John, if I am not mistaken, was taking a shit.
Within seconds Anthony was suckered in to building a tall tall tower with Hud and the Lego we brought over, Stephanie was milling about in the kitchen with Carol and I was left to talk to John, who was wearing Ugs and now sitting across from me in a lazy boy, nice and relaxed after his poorly timed bowel movement.
Now I like John. He is big and burly and simple and so fucking deaf I am pretty sure a train could pile through his house when his back is turned and he would just wonder how the tracks got there. I conceded to listen to John early on in our relationship because I have heard Carol talk and I am sure this grey crew cut man never gets the chance to talk for longer than ten seconds. So I did the right thing and let him roll his tongue like a telemarketer until he was done and was ready to listen to a couple of cents of myself. It was great for about five minutes, before the dominator Carol sat down and infiltrated John and I’s interaction with her salty crestfallen tale of her father’s eerie demise. It seems he was able to predict his own death, telling his son, phoning his neighbour mere moments before his cheque was cashed. Good story sure….for a campfire….At a dinner party it left us all with the uncomfortable pause of trying to share our own tales of incredible depression. I almost burst in with the time I slept in the back room of laundry mat before deciding that was just too damn cheery. Suck it up Carol…you are almost sixty…Parents die….get over it….
No offense Scott, Lorraine..Et al.
8:30pm we left. They gave us a nice helicopter photo of Onemana and we gave Carol a $20 gift certificate for the craft store. I drank pretty much a bottle and a half of wine. The half bottle a really good Chardonnay from Hawke’s Bay where we are headed. The full bottle a Pinot Noir from the same vineyard coincidentally.
Anthony was great with Hud the entire night. He is gay. We are so sure.
We will talk about it tomorrow night at Sandy and Ross’ I am also sure.
Then it’s Tuesday at Sheridan and Brendan’s and then Wednesday at the Germans.
I can’t wait to see her leaky boobies.
Love to all,
J.
I yam what I yam
October 22, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
6:57am
The weather here is awful. Two days of sun in the last two weeks. The rest of the time it’s been rain, torrential rain or just sprinkling but cold, or so windy there is a woman on a bike in the air, stolen dog in her basket.
So what do we all do when it rains? Well in the morning, Steph still goes to her daily play centre and I write. In the afternoons, we all sit across from each other until beads of blood form at our foreheads and we wail out in boredom.
Not really, Steph will do one of the many craft based activities she involves herself with or bake a batch of cookies or muffins to offer as gifts to one of the many houses she gets us invited us to. She is very close to wearing an apron all the time, which of course would be fine with me if that were all she was wearing. The hair bun has yet to be contemplated.
Hello Martha, it’s Jason at the front desk, checkout time at Hotel Steph is now.
Hud will build tall towers or space ships out of Lego, or run in circles around the glass table causing Steph to hold her breath, waiting for the crash or head bang. He will watch movies on the computer curled up in ball with the white comforter. He will do his puzzles and scream I did it! when he is done. I am not sure he even knows it is raining.
Me, on the third hand, do not know what to do with myself. I can’t write if Hud is watching a movie. I am in between books. Or I have books, but I do not feel like diving into them just yet. So I pace, and talk to Steph in short bursts of what I think my perfect life scenario is. Or blather on about my shallowness, or how I see our future. Or talk about my walks, or my novel, or my diet. I must drive her crazy. No wonder she dives into homemaking with same verve she dove into creative directing. And come on, masturbation really shouldn’t be a hobby. My forearm looks like Popeye’s as it is.
Five more days until we get on the road. Things are slowly falling into place. Paperwork is being organized. Accommodation details being gathered. We still have a number of social obligations before leaving, which I hope will offer me some more significant fodder for the journal.
Because this entry sucked.
Love to all,
J.
halfway home
October 18, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
7:58pm
We have reached, and since exceeded the halfway point of our trip. We are tentatively scheduled to leave NZ around March 16, 2006 and might kick around BC for a couple of days to visit some friends before finally coming home. 22 weeks away with around 22 to go. The journey continues. Even if it ended now it would have been totally worth it. Am I scared shitless about coming home? You bet. Do I feel like we made the right decision about packing it all in and leaving on a big fat jet plane? One look at my wife and son’s smiles tell me yes. Fuck yes.
And yes I am swearing for dramatic effect. I am not drunk. I wish.
Sunday in fart town proved as exciting and as redolent as the Saturday. This time we went to one of the sources of all the sugary sulpheric scents, a thermal activity reserve. It also serves as a meetinghouse and carving areas for local Maoris and has for hundreds of years. So we felt we have done our duty in regards to experiencing some Maori culture with our show on Saturday night and our tour on Sunday.
Colour us less full of Wonderbread guilt.
The rest of the reserve meandered through bubbling mud pools, steaming rivers and finally a spouting geyser. Before I get to the appropriate geyser jokes, I must tell you about setting up the picture below. I was trying to get Steph and Hud hugging in between the two speaker boxes explaining the exotic steaming land beyond. Just as I was about to snap the picture, Hudson announced he had to go poo. Look at his little face in this picture. It looks like its touching cloth. Turtle heading.
I can’t think of a better place in the diary to use those jokes. Needless to say, Hud was big boy enough to hold it until we reached a bathroom. Not before Steph, mother of the year in my books, offered to catch it in the blue bags we always carry for just this occasion. Even I, the king of poo, would not volunteer for that type of effort. You’re a better parent than I Ms. White.
The bathrooms were right near the main attraction of this park, an active geyser.
It looked quite docile so we decided to try and catch the lunchtime Maori show up at the meetinghouse. Sure we saw one the previous night, but I wanted to see if Assy, the Hawaiian hula cougar was doing the Rotorua Maori circuit.
I never did get to find out because as we started walking back, the geyser started to percolate, causing the throng of Asians to rush to the front of roped off portion of the park.
Damn Asians, as if your $8,000 digital camera couldn’t zoom in from the lobby of your hotel.
We were able to squeeze in and watch as this geyser, bubbled and boiled and eventually erupted, sending a stream of steamy water at least 40 feet in the air.
Pretty neat stuff this earth can do.
After it was over, as we walked away from the now flaccid geyser, Stephanie “Pure” White turned to me and whispered in my slightly rounded ear; “Reminds me of something”.
Tee hee naughty girl. Tee hee.
The drive back from Rotorua was highlighted by a stop at Waihi Beach. It was on the way, but still off the beaten path a little. It was another nice beach, the only significant difference being we arrived at low tide, and millions of fully intact shells of all varieties washed up on shore. Hud even found a crab claw, which is pretty much like winning a lottery ticket to a three-year-old boy. It still sits on his dresser. He has smelled it every morning since.
Speaking of every morning since, the last couple of days have been great writing days, with a dash of beach in the afternoon. The sun finally made an appearance on the Peninsula so we have been taking advantage of all the natural beauty surrounding us. It makes for nice days to have such a productive morning writing wise, and such a warm family afternoon. It’s the balance I have been speaking of throughout all these posts.
So, we leave here in 8 days. We are have a birthday party to go to on Saturday afternoon, and then it’s back to Carol and John’s. Light in the loafers Anthony asked specifically if we could come over to his parents house for dinner. He is down for the Labour Day weekend and wanted to make us a stir-fry. He also asked Steph if she would like to go to a quilting show on the Sunday. She has yet to confirm. We were thinking he was going to come out to Steph. Oh the fodder for this journal!
On Sunday night we are going to a BBQ at Ross and Sandy’s house just down the street. They were away for a couple of weeks and wanted to have us over before we leave. Their daughter, the midwife Tina, with the secret past, will be there with her two kids and her partner (They are not married you know, Carol whispered in our ears) Mark. Steph says Mark has a huge tattoo on his back and if get drunk enough, god help me, I will ask him to disrobe during dessert so I can see it.
Tuesday I promised I would go to play centre with Hud and Steph, only if I have reached the 200-page mark of the novel. I am on page 185 now so it's looking good.
I also passed the 100,000-word mark, which was important to me, as well as it now being about ten pages longer then the journal.
That’s a lot of writing chief.
It’s amazing what time will offer you.
Take it easy life coach.
Lots of interaction with my neighbours this week!!
I can’t wait!
Love to all,
J
It wasn't me
October 16, 2005
Rotorua, New Zealand
7:20am
Yes after many Onemanas in a row, I am finally writing from somewhere different. No, I did not kidney punch Carol after her ninth drop in and drive off manically bobbing my bulbous noggin to Crazy Frog by Axel F (my new most hated song ever, I very much hope it did not become as popular back home as it did here in NZ), we are on a weekend road trip, and I am in a hotel room.
Rotorua, for those who look at a map, this means you Michele, is in centre of the north island, about two hundred kilometers south of the Coromandel Peninsula, south of our town of Onemana. The entire town sits on an abundance of geothermal activity, including explosive geysers, mud pools, fumaroles and hot springs. But truly to me, the best part about this town so far is it smells like one big fart. Steam escapes from cracks in the earth all over the city, releasing relatively harmless sulpheric gas into the air, making it smell like bad eggs, or really potent eggy farts. The smell is constant, but every now and then suddenly gets stronger, and it smacks you in the face like a drunken parent. It is gross, but very cool.
The other benefit of this constant smell of farts is that you can just let your own fly without fear of getting blame. I know I am not the only person to think of this. People walking down the grocery store aisle, from sexy yummy mummy, to sweaty construction worker, can let a squeaker out without fear of someone being behind them holding their nose and scolding them. I, of course, have been releasing gas with wild abandon, shrugging my shoulders when Steph looks at me accusingly, and simply saying….Rotorua.
The drive took about three hours with a stop in Katikati for a coffee and hot chocolate. We went directly to the information centre to see if there were any package deals we could get. The nice lady at the counter recommended some and we concluded to see the Maori performance at out hotel, which includes dinner, and we get entrance to the spa for free.
So it was off to the Polynesian Spa, a cheesy name for a bunch of thermally heated mineral pools, and one big freshwater pool with a slide for Hud to go down. We soaked and swam for just about an hour, feeling relaxed and refreshed from the mineral pools. After we located our hotel, which I booked online, and checked in with no hassle and relaxed in the room, trying to give Hud some down time before the show and dinner started later on in the evening.
At 6:45, a massive Maori man came into the lobby where we waiting with others, announcing his presence with a booming cry. His face was covered in ceremonial tattoos, it they were real, I have no idea, not that kind of dude you go and up and ask, and he was easily 350lbs, dressed in only a loin cloth, an outfit I can’t pull off anymore. He led us into the dining area, where we were seated with two other couples of the octogenarian sect, and offered white and wheat bread as appetizers. Yes I am a food snob.
The show began right away, and it was great. From beautiful Maori love songs to the really aggressive war dance Haka, made famous by the New Zealand All Blacks rugby team, it was very entertaining. Another entertaining part of the show was when they pulled lovely Stephanie on stage to participate in one of the dances.
She was great, following their instructions, shaking her hips and playing with her balls, the balls on a string that Maori women dance with. When they came into the audience looking for men to participate in the Haka, I quickly diverted my eyes and pretended to talk to Hud in avoidance of being volunteered. When they passed me up, I immediately regretted it, suddenly wanting to try the Haka, and mad at myself for being shy or chicken or whatever. I did the same thing at an ice show when I was like 7. It was amazing how familiar the feeling was.
The show came to an end with a resounding round of applause but not before the same huge Maori man announced there was a birthday in the audience and invited a woman up on stage to be recognized. She was maybe turning 50, and I think a group of them came from Hawaii to celebrate. After the happy birthday song, a larger Hawaiian woman was invited on stage to sing a song for this woman, accompanied by yet another woman who would dance a long to the song. Now, the first thing I thought when I saw the birthday girl, who seemed kind of drunk, and much to willing to accept this kind of attention, was, cougar. She had the look. And when the friend, the dancer came on stage, looking a bit like sea hag from the Popeye cartoons, but dressed very provocatively, it confirmed my assumption. They both were cougars. Hawaiian cougars. A rare breed indeed.
Anyway, the big Hawaiian played the guitar while the other woman danced. Well. She danced in I am sure traditional hula way, with no grass skirt, but it was just a smidge less than a feature show at a strip club. She swayed and grinded her calypigous bum until every man was pulling the shirt from his neck and women were wondering when they entered a brothel. It was pretty funny, even if I am probably exaggerating a little bit.
Today we are going to a geothermal park to see live geysers and mud pools. On the way back we are doing a circuit walk near waterfalls. I will post all about it later.
Kia ora!
Google it.
Love to all,
J.
welcome to annoyedville, population, me
October 13, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
6:18am
Balance of Fatherhood:
You hear your son fussing and singing to himself at 5:30am. You’re angry and frustrated for having to wake up so early.
You go to his bed and lie with him, try to figure out why he is waking up so early. You are confused and tolerant, knowing there is no malicious intent to his waking up.
He says in a little boy whisper, which is barely a whisper at all, “Lets be best friends forever” with not one smidge of provocation and then hugs your head tightly. You swell so big with love and absolute joy from hearing something you hope to hear from your boy for the rest of your life.
Anger
Frustration
Confusion
Tolerance
Love
And absolute joy.
Talk about compartmentalizing. I am a simple creature.
Play Centre started again, after a two week school holiday hiatus, so Hud and Steph have disappeared in the mornings to allow the writing to continue. It will be a good week and still on target to cross the 200 page mark by the time we leave the Coromandel Peninsula. After they come back we have been hitting random beaches for just small walks. The weather has been the shits here, but at least its getting warmer, not colder like home ha ha.
I am getting excited about leaving Onemana. About two weeks ago, I was elated to be in one place for so long, because I felt so settled. And now, as the departure date gets closer, I want to leave because I feel so settled. Because I know it’s going to be over soon. The other reason, and this may be indicative of something larger, is I am beginning to dislike living in a small town. Everyone knows your business. People drop by unannounced. It’s kind of boring. I hate admitting the last one, because it is boredom that has made writing a novel so interesting. But the other two get on my nerves more and more as the time passes here in Onemana, pop. 300. At least at home, strangers are guarded enough to avoid conversations about themselves, limiting interaction to the familiar wave or pressed lips with accompanying head nod. Here I might as well climb up our neighbour’s asses I know so much about them, including all their financial obligations and burdens, a topic more taboo at home then which hand you wipe with. And of course I immediately became the guy writing the book, a label I wouldn’t actually mind if I were this accomplished novelist, seeking solace in small town NZ to solve a wicked case of writer’s block. But I am a green doe eyed wannabe; with absolutely no clue if this novel I am writing has an ounce of merit or value. So when Carol pops by in the mornings to drop off the mail, and then leaves after only six or seven minutes of one way conversation because she wants to leave me to “my writing” I find it a bit irritating. She was also the one that warned the people here on school holidays that I was writing a book. allowing me to summarize the novel to people I barely want to know.
I mean, take it easy star shine, this is not Salem, and I am not Stephen King.
Yesterday we took a walk to Oputere Beach yesterday with what was supposed to be two kids from play centre and Hud, Steph and I. But the father invited himself, crushing my family walk already marred by the addition of two other kids. Can you tell I am in a bit of a mood today? You would think I would appreciate the testosteroney bond of another male older then three, and maybe I would, if this male and I had anything in common. But this is the German dude, with hair halfway down his back and about eight teeth in his mouth. He is pleasant enough, but there is a bit of a language barrier, meaning my sometimes obscure sense of humour falls on untranslatable ears. He just stares as me with a smile that looks mean because, come on, all Germans look mean and then nods and walks away. The other thing is he speaks German to his kids. Not that big of a deal but when his older boy threw sand directly in Hud’s eyes, I wanted him to at least acknowledge his boy’s act of pure evil, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying because it was in German and then they both kind of laughed, leaving me bewildered holding Hud’s crying hand.
These are the same kids that are still being suckled by the mother who did not join us for the walk, who was no doubt at home, eating bon bons and watching television, dressed as a dominatrix of course. I mean she is German.
I may need an ‘I really do not dislike Germans’ disclaimer after this post.
I really am a friendly person. Really.
I think I am just tired.
Nein.
I am just tired of this place.
Love to all,
J.
Bad dates...
October 9, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
7:18am
Just back from my morning walk. Sunday morning is supposed to be my day of rest, but yesterday it was pissing and windy, so for the first time I bailed due to inclement weather. Actually, the weather over the past month has been pretty dicey, changes every twenty minutes or so. When I say change, I mean it goes from hot bright yellow sun to dark as dusk in the middle of the day in a very short time. Strong winds and huge droplets and then the sun returns and rainbows fill the sky. Such is coastal living I guess. It’s all new to me.
This morning the sunrise was not marred by arcane clouds, so the walk was quite lovely. On the beach, after heavy rain, a river, normally running under the sand, will split the beach in two. Mostly this river is easily crossable, but today, the gap was just beyond stepping across, so I had a decision to make. I could walk closer to the ocean, where the surf mixes with the river flow, and you can time it for minimal foot soaking, or I could try to leap right where I stood. Well, more out of laziness (which is ironic considering I am waking up at 6 in the morning to go for a walk) then brevity, I decide to jump the river. Flashes of Indiana Jones, throw me the whip, throw me the idol, scenes danced across my brain as I backed up two paces, took two deep breaths and,.,..just made it across the raging tornado of rapids. Er. No. Actually when I looked back to judge my heroics, the river looked as wide and vast as what flows into the drain after a storm. I heard strange cackles, and to my left, there were two seagulls and an orange beaked oystercatcher having a smoke, nudging each other’s wings and laughing at me. I soldiered on.
Two things of note since my Tuesday’s serious post. On Wednesday, which is turning into skip the novel writing day, we went to town to take care of mild necessities, no wait, this is not what I wanted to write about. Talk about a blurred life. On Thursday,….wait..Was it Thursday? Never mind. One day last week, after novel writing, all of us went to for a drive through a park/forestry road to a small turn off we heard leads down to a beach. It seems this whole trip has been about seeking out small turns that lead to beaches. It is a nice theme if you ask me. We parked our car, and said hello to a couple that were just about to descend to the beach as well. We were warned about the descent to the beach by a number of different people. They said it might be a bit dodgy with Hud, as it can get quite muddy and it’s about 800m down to the beach, cris crossing down a well-worn path. Steph and I thought, well, we won’t know for sure unless we try, if it’s too much, we will walk back. Although you are probably expecting some wicked tale of death defying repelling and abseiling down this steep mountain, I am sorry to disappoint. The descent was not as bad as we expected. Muddy yes. Steep in some points, also yes. Undoable. No way. I held onto Hud’s hand the entire way and he was fine. It did cross my mind how the hell we were going to get back up the mountain, but before I had a chance to dwell on it, we arrived at the beach and it was well worth it.
There is something so big about coming down out of forest and on to a secret beach.
Not really secret, as the couple passed us on the way down, he was from Philly, she was from South Africa, they live in NZ now, there was also a foursome of boys around 18 who plopped a tent in the woods and were surf casting and snorkeling, but due to the size of the beach, within a short walk, you felt like the only people on the planet. Even high tide reaches close to the rocks, conveniently washing away all old footprints. Helping with the anonymous image.
We walked through holes in rocks and into caves, reveling in the rare sunny afternoon. Hud, of course got down to his gitch and braved the icy water up to his dinglenuts.
I have not been in since Waiheke Island back in August, and it’s killing me. I have been in colder water, water that makes my own dinglenuts stay nestled beside my pancreas for a few days after, but it just hasn’t been hot enough outside to make me bring my suit on our walks, so I remain dry in body, and chicken in soul. Soon though, even if I have to go buck and charge into the water like an angry bull, a naked angry bull, to say I have been in the Tasman Sea in my lifetime. Naked. Talk about shriveled dinglenuts. Like raisins I tell you.
We only spent about an hour and half kicking around the beach before the sun disappeared over the mountain. Steph and I looked at each other and nodded, grimacing at the daunting task of climbing back up, but recognizing the accomplishment we were sitting on. We tied all our shoes tight and began climbing back up. I have been a father for just over three years now, and am constantly surprised how constantly surprised I am by my boy. In my head I resolved I would be carrying Hud on my shoulders up this mountain, something my knees and my back were not looking forward to. But low and behold, did this little egg roll take this challenge on his own little shoulders and start scrambling up this mountain like a lynx. I had to hustle to keep up with him as his low centre of gravity allowed him to use all four appendages to climb the rock stairs and muddy tree roots. A number of times he pushed me out of the way to reach down to Steph to “pull” her up. Mom needs help he would say, offering is mud-crusted palm. Anyway, at the summit, the parking lot, I wanted to bow down to this little prince, but I had to catch my breath first. I was so proud of him, and then did the rewind in my head to think of all the other times he rode my shoulders like a sultan. What a little bugger I thought. What an awesome little bugger.
Our other trip took place yesterday. We drove 90 minutes to Mount Maunganui, a small mountain on the coast, just outside of a larger city, Tauranga. We really had no reason to go to the “Mount” other than it was Saturday, and we wanted to get out of the house. So we braved the nausea inducing curved roads and made it to the Mount just after 11. Our first stop was the Hot Springs. This is a modern complex of multiple hot saltwater pools, with slides for kids, and hot high-pressure showers to rid the body of all kinks and knots. It was nice. Even when it started to rain a little, it was nice to be outside and in water, in these really buoyant massive hot tubs.
My only the observation about these pools was I really enjoy the basic task of getting Hud ready in change rooms in places like this. It’s really a father son thing to do, as for no reason at all, this task has been bestowed upon me, even though he could perfectly go with Steph in the ladies change room and would if I was not there. But I remember being a kid and going into pools and squash club change rooms with my father, and was fascinated by the men, brazen in their nudity, walking around with towels around their necks, rubbing the water out of their ears. Now this may sound homoerotic to some of you (Hello Chuck?), but to me it could not be further from that. It’s all very masculine and who gives a Brut 33 fuck and a Gillette god damn, a world that Hud seemed comfortable in, seeing all the other random aged kids gladly get nudie so they can get out to the pool. Hud even got on the bench and starting to dance a little dance. This I stopped quickly. As all men will tell you, sure it’s ok to be naked, but naked change room dancing? There has to be a line drawn somewhere. Lesson learned for one wonderfully comfortable three year old.
After the pool we went for a quick bite overlooking their 30, yes 30km beach. It started to hail so we timed it all pretty perfectly. Later we walked their shopping street, and made a few purchases, thereby passing our allotted budget for Coromandel three weeks early. Thank goodness for the exchange rate.
We drove home and stopped for groceries, Steph running into another mother from playgroup, a regular occurrence these days. We had a lay out for dinner, a traditional deli style meal inspired by my mother, Lo Lo, which has now become a tradition in our household as well, and one of my favourite meals. Hud and I watched a movie after dinner, while granny plowed through her knitting.
Today we are going to find another secret beach. Near the river I jumped this morning.
I am the Monarch of the sea……
Love to all,
J.
Harsh tokes dude
October 5, 2005
Onemana, New Zealand
6:34pm.
If I were to tell you I left the birthday post up, with me wearing my Dickies sweatshirt for the 22nd day in row, to garner comments and attention, would you think any less of me? More of me? But how could you think any more of me really.
36 years old. Holy shit. My life wavers between asking Steph to pass me my book because my lower back is just killing me to staring at the brown bottle of beer in the fridge, wondering how long it would take to chug it. My honest guess? Less than four seconds. I read another blog about this theme. The, when-did-I-suddenly-become-an-adult, theme. I think half my friends think the same thing. All of us mentally reminiscing about the times we used to hang out in subway stations waiting to overhear about a party in Rosedale. Like these times were yesterday, or at least just last year. Thank goodness I starting balding when I was like 10, so I had a physical indicator that time keeps on slippin’ (slippin’ slippin)’ into the future. The other half of my friends simply refuse to grow up, jerry springering their hand and saying no thank you to time, and make their way to the front of the bar, or to the basement to do buckets.
All the power to them. The future at this point is both scary and exciting. The next twenty years will truly define who we are. Legacies established, fortunes won and lost, the poor house or the big house, marriage kids, divorce, sudden deaths, luck, both bad and good and memories of electric joy and arcane debauchery. It’s pretty heavy duty shit compadre. My excuse right now is that take away Hud, a big minus I will grant you, and I have about the same responsibilities I did when I shotgunning king cans, and sucking up bottle toke smoke. I want to finish my novel and lose some weight, but these are not responsibilities, these are hopes and goals. Sometimes I feel guilty about my lack of responsibilities; that I have yet to suffer, yet to feel the pang and turmoil of an earned life lived, but then I just shake my head and smile and think, not yet, please, not yet.
So 36. Next up? 37. One year at a time I guess.
Sunday we went for dinner at another one of the houses of the play centre mothers. She whipped out the boob the moment I got there as well. Relax. The baby is only three months old. Actually this couple, and another couple that joined us, were all very cool. And there were six kids in total, including the baby, running amok in their reasonably well appointed home. We were invited to try out the new bbq, finally one with a lid, all the other ones are just grills on one side, and a big flat surface on the other, which makes me think this is not bbqing, it’s frying.
I brought over chicken breasts marinated in red curry paste with added red chiles and lime. Everyone loved them. There were steaks and sausages and a couple of good salads. And people were drinking. Thank the big lord in the sky we found some people that actually enjoy the occasional libation. The ladies drank white wine and me and the boys drank beer. The host actually made a point of making me try his microbrew preference, meaning he actually likes beer and is not just drinking to make me feel less like a rummy.
After dinner, I sat with the men, the ladies sat elsewhere. It happened by accident or on purpose, no spite intended, it just gravitates that way sometimes. The host ran his own painting and paneling company and the other dude was the resident IT guy in town. Not too long ago, both families uprooted their lives, moving from Auckland (“the city” as they refer to it everywhere in NZ. There is a general hostile malaise directed at Aucklanders by the rest of the country. Aucklanders return this attitude with a lovely verve of their own. It’s interesting) to the small community of Whangamata. Both families said they were looking to get out of the fast lane, and seek a place where people had the same attitudes about life, work, family and happiness. Their attitudes were not unlike the reasons Steph and I cancelled our lives and started this temporary new one.
I equally expressed my joy about the time I get to spend with my boy and my wife, and how if it wasn’t for my family, which includes my dear friends, I would have no problem moving to this country. I know it’s grandiose to speculate not having what I have back home, because that is what makes our home, home. But when we get back, we will have to find a little life niche that satisfies all priorities. It will be difficult, but it must be done. These people did it. Sure they have the type of support network within a couple of hours that we do. Their decision was not as daunting as the climb the huge mountain picture I am painting. Nor was ours that hard to make to leave either. But still both are brave choices.
Talking to these nice people with nice drinking habits just reaffirmed I need to find the balance of heart, fun, ardor, spirit, and love when I return back home to ensure the next stage of my life, the second half of my life, will not be spent trying to attain things I don’t really want, and trying to be a person I don’t really like.
I guess I do have some responsibilities after all
Love to all,
J.
Yo ho 36?
October 1, 2005
My 36th birthday
Onemana, New Zealand
5:31pm
It’s my birthday today.
Allow me to wax on how significant the last 12 months has been;
Massive depression after 35th birthday, complete and utter loss of identity, house appraisal, shimmer of hope, house sale, hope turns into reality, giving notice at work, addiction to comfort gone, last day of work, strangely sad, party with friends, strangely not sad, plane rides and beaches and more beaches and holiday homes and waves of depression still, but conquerable, and then suddenly fear of future gone, writing tons, weight loss, confidence returning, love for son and wife never stronger. Phew. No coffee thanks; just the cheque would be great.
As far as change and life disruption goes it may go down as the most dramatic 12 months of my life. Dramatic and brave or stupid. But everyone knows it’s a fine line between brevity and stupidity. A line, thank goodness I cannot see.
Lots to cover today including the payback dinner with Carol and John and their son Anthony, my aromatherapy massage with Holly that Steph got me for birthday, and finally today’s playground opening with tons of mini pirates (and some big ones) running around under a cloud covered sky.
First up, our neighbours across the street over for dinner on Thursday night. I must admit, things have fizzled between Carol and I. I think it’s a lack of communication issue, mainly; I have trouble saying anything during our conversations. She is like an avalanche of words, and I am the one hand sticking my hand up in the snow holding a single word, only to be covered by the next rolling mass of words, until I try in vain to muscle up to the top to stick my hand up again and just as I bust through, sweet Jesus, another wave of words buries me under. I think I will wait for the St. Bernard, dictionary around its neck instead of a cask.
Anyway, dinner was a success, me over exaggerating (never!) a little about not being able to talk, and I did find John quite engaging with his tales of conferences in Singapore (he was a builder) and being roped into buying fake watches, which he reckons are pretty good. He has soft eyes and a simple way of story telling that led me to slap his back in affection and almost camaraderie. And then of course, there was Anthony. A few weeks ago, when we were at their house for dinner, Carol mentioned she had two sons, one older, who was married to a crusty old skate who barely lets her kids near their grandparents, and one younger, Anthony, who was the real “city boy” who loves the waterfront café and bar scene and lived with a 45 year old woman. Anthony is thirty. Steph immediately made the assumption he was dating the older lady, where my immediate assumption was different. My gaydar starting beeping, and I was almost positive that Anthony is playing for the other team. It was just they way Carol described him, almost apologetically, but still with heaps of affection. So when they arrived, I was curious to see if my instincts were indeed accurate. Well within minutes of smelling his cologne, seeing his fancy dress shirt and him saying the word fabulous to describe the roast beef I made for dinner, I felt confident my instincts were correct. He was a great guy and it was nice to have someone around our age to talk to. He also liked red wine as much as Steph and I, which was a relief, everyone else in this tiny town never seem to have more than one glass. I, of course, never like to have less than one bottle at a good dinner, but maybe I am the exception and not the rule. See how much smarter I am getting now that I am 36?
Hud took a shine to Anthony as well, playing on the ground with him after dinner, building a great Lego building, which Hud kept intact for almost an hour, a household record. They left at around 9, and Steph and I pat our backs for still being great hosts, no matter where the hell we live. Oh, for the foodies, we had a roast beef which I stuck whole cloves of garlic in and covered with red wine, slow roasted it as it wasn’t the best cut, with it we served roast potatoes with garlic and other dried herbs, carrots with mint and steamed green beans. Steph made scones with fresh whipped cream and a berry coulis for dessert, which we ate with dark coffee. Well I had a beer in a wine glass as per my norm. First beer since September 10th I will have you know. Weight loss and all.
Next up, Friday. Steph has been great all week stealing Hudson away to let me get writing done. It was another great week, just under 16,000 words, and 29 pages, leaving me at just over 120 pages in. 200 pages before November seems pretty attainable at this rate. We shall see.
So after Steph returned from the beach in the morning, we relaxed until it was time to drive me town for my aromatherapy massage appointment, my birthday present. Now I have had two real massages in my life, one on my honeymoon, where I first realized how close they get to the old franks and beans, and once just before we left on this trip, when I had a mysterious fever, and this Asian fucker pressed his hands, fingers, elbows, whatever, into me so hard I almost stood up and back handed him across the room. So my feelings were mixed. But this was nice. Holly, a Maori woman took me in the candle lit room and shook my hand. She was a big woman, as Maoris tend to be, but had a real pleasant face and a really soft voice. She instructed me to take off my clothes and lie face down on the table. Being green in the massage area I asked how much I should disrobe. She said as far as I wanted, if I wanted to leave my underpants (sounds so three year old!) on I could. I didn’t want to, being naked doesn’t bother me, I just didn’t want to get all buck and then hop on the table, only to have her scream a war cry upon her return, seeing my white ass propped up on the massage table.
She did not scream when she returned and she gently covered my entire body with warm towels to let me get fully relaxed. Fully relaxed. What does that mean exactly? You see I had a four-bean salad for lunch, (with spinach and celery for the foodies! Wink), I also am a reasonably easy-to-arouse man, add that to the fact that I am always wary that my dogs might have a pungent tang to them, and I was tighter than fist buried in cement on that table. I was so afraid that something on my body might release, harden, or smell, so my relaxation was a little hard,..er…I mean difficult to come…er…achieve…er…I couldn’t quite relax ok?
I did get over it. She was a professional and nothing hardened (thoughts of baseball, and monkeys and shark attacks helped), nothing released, the beans not quite doing their work until later (lucky Steph) and my feet were so lathered in lavender oil, that they just smelled, well, like lavender.
After, I was all oiled up and we went out for dinner. A nice pizza pasta place with all sorts of other kids, so Hud felt comfortable. I had a penne carbonara, perhaps the most fattening dish on the planet, Steph had seafood pasta and Hud had the Hawaiian pizza. It was a great birthday meal. We drove home and waddled inside. Sleep came easy.
Today. My actual birthday. At least this hemisphere’s version of my actual birthday. Steph let me sleep in, which I almost did, but then I just read my new book (Mailer’s Tough Guys Don’t Dance, so far, so good) and relaxed. I went downstairs and continued to relax while Steph made banana pancakes and Hud presented me with the card he made with his mother. He had already presented it to me the day before but it’s easy to sell happy to a kid with an electric smile.
We ate, I read, Steph played with Hud, I napped on the hammock overlooking the cow pasture and ocean, I slipped upstairs for a real nap and general forced laziness. At 1:30 we got Hud ready to go to the official opening of the new playground. He looked great with his pirate gear on, but suddenly became hesitant because of the impending interaction with kids he does not know.
I have to learn how to deal with his mood swings better. Every day is a new lesson to learn as a father. We arrived at the playground and the place was teaming with kids in various states of pirate dress. Hud hung back a little, checking out the scene, eating the free sausages donated by the junior rugby league. I had three sausages, but who is counting. After the cutting of the ceremonial ribbon, the Coromandel FM dj hosting instructed everyone down the beach for a treasure hunt.
Hud, now fueled by chocolate and sausage became more animated and dug with Steph to no avail.
I took her place and within seconds we found the little plastic bag with a number on it. We handed it in and got a little gold bar as our treasure. A gold bar of chocolate. Hud snarfed it down accordingly.
It started to rain so everyone jammed under the tent (sponsored by the local real estate company of course), to see who won the best-dressed pirate costume. Well our little boy won one of the loot bags, and the DJ called his name so loud on the microphone that he burst out in a little puddle of tears, thinking he had done something wrong. Poor little man. He is so fragile sometimes.
Oh, before I forget, earlier on in the week Hud and I and some other kids got our picture in the local paper. It was an article about the opening of the playground and we happened to be there when the photographer was there snapping pics. Everywhere we go, the media is always hounding us. I will post it here when someone e-mails us the scanned picture.
Also, a magazine back home has asked me to write a couple of articles on spec, slice of life kind of things. I may have some words for her.
So that is that. A long post to catch up on the last couple of days. Most of pictures are from today. Where I got to where a big plastic earring and say arrrrrghhh maties all day.
I loved it. Happy birthday to me.
Love to all,
J.
Oh. March 15th if anyone is interested.
