Taylor-Made

The cage fighter within

2012-02-04T18:20:00.000-08:00

The acclaimed bout of second trimester energy was short-lived and I’m back to being exhausted most of the time as I enter my eighth month today. And of course, comments and horror birth stories from co-workers, patients, strangers and friends are never in short-supply. “I have this friend who…” “I know this gal who…” “How much time do you have left? Geez. Are you sure you’re not having twins?” One more twin comment and I’m going to start handing people a Doppler heart monitor and say, “If you can find a second heart-beat, I’ll give you a prize.”

And while I get more tired, little dude gets more active. I believe he’s come up with an exercise regimen that he is quite passionate about following. I give the guy props for being so motivated, because frankly, all I want to do is drink a milkshake or five and watch Office re-runs.

Sea Monkey’s Exercise Program:

Swimming flutter kicks and arm strokes: 6a-8a

Chicken dance routine: 11a-2p

Zumba, M/W/F: 3-3:30 (it’s more intense so I’m assuming he likes to break it up)

Pull up to Umbilical Bar for some refreshments

Intermittent personalized stretching: 5-10p

*All this to prepare him for his favorite nightly workout:

Cage-fighting!!: 11p-4a

Can the inside of a uterus get bruised? Because I’m pretty sure mine is.

Twisted experiment

2011-12-23T18:51:00.000-08:00

I’ve created a liver, lungs, lips and the bones are hardening. My biggest challenge now is to maintain the delicate balance of eating while appeasing the fire-breathing dragon parked in my throat. One minute I’m so ravenously hungry I could absolutely picture myself eating the entire buffet at a Ruby Tuesdays, then after only 3 bites, I pull my shoulders back and crane up at the ceiling, hoping that my table aerobics will create even the tiniest more room for food that I desperately want. Two more bites after that, the dragon is back, spitting tiny balls of flame, reminding me, he indeed exists.

My recent inner dialogue is not unlike that of a deep-sea divers journal entries while trapped under the sea in some lengthy bizarre experiment:

11/15/11: There is a strange burning sensation in my throat. I’ve eaten the rations I’ve been provided. Could I have possibly swallowed some sea water? I’ve been under orders to increase my portions to allow for the increased burning of calories but I’m finding it harder to consume it all.

11/20/11: A severe increase in bubbles emitting from the lower valves accompanied by a noise I have never heard before. Could my wetsuit be compromised?

11/20/11: I believe I crop-dusted some unsuspecting sea life.

11/21/11: Abdominal muscles are beginning to appear severely distended. Could it be the illusion of my mask or am I weakening? The fish are starting to stare.

12/05/11: An increase in the burning sensation. At first I was able to link it to certain rations. It now appears to come and go at will. I have taken to nibbling kelp.

12/07/11: Crop-dusted a whale. I do not feel bad.

12/10/11: My export is not matching my import. Something needs to be done about this or my abdomen might explode its already stretched capacity.

12/13/11: My endurance is lessening. I am weakening. This is not good. I am not exactly sure what lies ahead but I’m beginning to think I am less prepared for it than I’d like to be.

12/15/11: I have increased my exercise regimen. It’s not helping. My abdomen continues to distend further.

12/16/11: Burning sensation increases. Is my throat permanently scalded?

12/22/11: My ability to take a deep breath has officially begun to diminish. It is as though something is creeping up from below and pushing, nay, shoving up on my lungs. Must surface soon. Alas, while I’ve been told my specimen is now viable, my surface contact informs me that at least 3 more months is optimal.

12/23/11: Burning sensation constant. Bubble emitting constant. Distended abdomen now constant and possibly suffering irreparable damage. Formulating a proposal to the big boss man in which my partner will undergo the experiment next time.

Grown-ups say the darnedest things*

2011-12-14T09:34:00.000-08:00

*to you when you're pregnant.

I'm not sure what it is about a pregnant belly that makes people feel like they can say whatever they want to you. I get that I'm participating in the most basic and vital miracle of life and its beautiful, blah blah blah, but seriously, how is it that verbal filters get clogged and folks just let it overflow. Do they think the bump makes you less sensitive or will keep your fist from reaching their face?

Before I was really showing, like the extremely obvious "baby bump" I now sport, one of the nurses, who knew I was pregnant, was asking me if I'd gotten my work benefits squared away since she knew I'd been in a battle with my boss to get full-time benefits before I "came out" of the pregger closet. Another nurse, sitting near-by decided to pipe in with her oh-so-thoughtful advice. "Term it. Kids ruin your life. Just term it." (And for those of you not in the medical field, she meant terminate it.) Right then, the ER tech, who happened to also being sitting too close to the now very awkward conversation said, "Well, if you don't term it, there are always people who will buy your baby." Who said I was selling it? Who says I don't want this baby? These are also some of the same people who forget I'm married, even though Paul used to work in the same ER before he was hired at the PD and has been introduced to people as my husband on numerous occasions. These are the comments from the people who decided to join the medical field because they want to care and heal and help people. Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy now doesn't it.

And there's more:

ER Doc: "Is that uh, you know, what I think it is?" (As he puts his arm around my shoulder in a fatherly manner.)

Me: "I don't know Dr. C, what do you think it is?"

ER Doc: "Well I'm hesitant to say until it actually comes out."

Me: "You mean the baby?"

ER Doc: "Yeah, I didn't know if it might be a tumor or something"

Me: "Right, a tumor. 'Cause that's an obvious choice."

In the hospital cafeteria at the check-out line from a woman who has obviously never been denied a meal in her life. In her thick eastern European accent: "Is that you're dinner? Baby need more food."

A patient, who not minutes before was lying in her ER bed moaning and groaning incoherently, says loud enough to my co-worker so I can hear at my cubicle: "Is somebody working on a new somebody?" (Is that supposed to mean something?)

From across the cafeteria, "Jessy! You're huge!" (So, far, I'm only 24 weeks, with nearly 4 more months of growing, but ya know, apparently, already huge.) "Thanks Roberto, that's what every pregnant woman wants to hear."

And multiple times, this happens:

"When are you due?" I tell them. "Whoa, really?" (trying to hide their obvious surprise.) "Wow, you still have a ways to go, huh."

"Are you sure there aren't twins in there?"

"Are you having twins?"

"Twins, right?"

"You're not due till when?"

"You've got how many months?"

"Lemme guess? Twins?"

I'm sure the comments will keep coming as this baby keeps growing with, yes, 4 more months to go because as I now know, the baby bump gives people the courage to say things that they wouldn't dream of saying to anyone else.

Breaking up with my chiropractor

2011-11-27T15:41:00.000-08:00

He just doesn’t know it yet.

I start by practicing all the infamous lines. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “You’re a great guy, just too good for me.” “I just can’t see myself in this for the long haul and why waste any more time, we’re not getting any younger.” Who am I kidding, though? If I was being completely honest I’d tell him, “Look dude, you and your staff stress me out and at this time if my life where Zoloft is a distant memory, because I certainly don’t want to contribute to any possible birth defects, I need to cut out stressors and you are one of them. It’s also hard because I loved my last chiropractor before he up and moved back to Philadelphia to help his wife with her ailing parents. Parents, Schmarents.

I know some of you will be the first to guffaw and say Chiropractors are quacks, but let me add that I’ve gone to several, at various periods in my life, since I was 5 years old and to me they to make a difference. Maybe I’ve been certifiably brain-washed but I like them (usually) so get over it and just read my story because if you didn’t like them already, you won’t after this.

I was told about Dr. T a couple months ago by a co-worker of Paul’s. We were given the impression that One: he took our insurance and Two: he specialized in pre-natal chiropractic care, as attested by the co-workers wife during her first two and now currently third pregnancy. Two is true but One, well, when he asked what my insurance was, and I told him, he made a face and sarcastically added, “Oh, we love them” I didn’t catch the sarcasm until I asked, “Oh, really?” to which he replied, “Uh, no.” Strike one. Strike two was a slower reveal: his front office staff. I’m fairly reasonable when it comes to professionalism in the work place. I like a friendly atmosphere and don’t want office drones handing me my paperwork and charts so I let it go the first day. Assistant #1 garbed in droopy tattered khakis, an ill-fitting baggy shirt and a lacy sweatband, aerobic style, holding back her unkempt hair led me to an exam room where she made me watch a video on subluxations (I’ve seen these types of videos thousands of times) “Well, you haven’t seen this one so we just need you to watch it first.” She comes back 15 minutes into the already mind-numbing presentation and says, “Whoops, wrong one, you’re supposed to watch the 8 minute one.” So what does she do? Makes me watch the 8 minute one. She comes back a little while later and proceeds to interview me. Apparently it’s a new questionnaire they had me fill out ahead of time so it’s taking her longer than usual to get through it. She says things like, “Oh, I’ll skip that bit” and “Uh, um”. A lot. After the grueling process, which seems to have absolutely no affect whatsoever on the care I receive in the following days she releases me to what I refer to as the torture room. The main room in Dr. T’s practice is filled with tall metal contraptions with ropes and belts and steps and chairs and kitchen timers. It looks like it was conceived in the ‘50’s and hasn’t been updated or cleaned since its birth. People are tied up in a variety of positions in what is referred to as “traction”. Timers go off at random intervals and the entire scene is sound-tracked to loud repetitive praise and worship music. There is a time a place for praise and worship music and in my humble opinion, a place where you’re painfully immobile for at least 8 minutes at a time is not one of them. The whole scene is very unnerving and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. Eventually the assistant directs me to one of four adjusting tables by the front window where everyone and their dog can walk past and see your spine being skillfully manipulated. Dr. T does a muscle test on me, performs a few minor adjustments and starts into his first of many soliloquies on the merits of chiropractic care during pregnancy due to all the “relaxin” in the body. He asks me to come back in a couple days, bring hubby and bring back my x-rays at which time he’ll review them. You can’t just look at them now Dr. T? I wanted to say. I thought the whole point of making an appointment was to get all the initial introductions of my spine out of the way. Nope, times up. Come back in a few. Turns out his sales pitch is saved for a later date.

I come back with Paul a couple days later where we’re led to a different room and I’m forced to re-watch the longer video, (I’ve already seen the first 15 minutes, remember?) the last bit filled with patients giving their testimonies. What sales pitch video is complete without the testimonials? At a certain point you forget what they’re promoting: a timeshare? a Tempurpedic mattress? a weight-loss drug? They all become one, which is when Paul and I add our juvenile banter and Mystery Science Theater type voice-overs. After the video finally finished, as if on cue, Dr. T stands at the doorway and leaps into the room like a motivational speaker onto his stage. This dude has waaaay too much energy. He delves deeper into his subluxation and pre-natal relaxin speech as well as how important it is to receive care even though insurance companies only cover so much. Yeah, we get it. We’re looking at out-of-pocket expenses. Quit trying to convince us and just get to the bottom line. The more a salesman delays at getting to the price the higher you know its going to be. It’s almost like he’s trying to convince himself its worth it. He finishes up, adjusts me and as we start to leave Dr. T stops us. He says, “Paul, do you mind if I give you a blessing?” I’m thinking, ok, maybe this guy is just really religious and wants to recite a quote or something. Paul says, “I don’t say no to blessings.” Dr. T pulls out what looks like a check-book and writes one out for $200. Paul and I look at each other incredulously. He slips it into an envelope with some ceremony and hands it to Paul. We look at it after we leave. Turns out he wrote it to himself, it’s towards an initial exam (for Paul) and only good till the end of the month (15 days from now). The truly weird part is: On the back of all their hours of operation business cards is a coupon which states “Come in or bring a friend for a free initial exam” So the whole writing of the check was just another ploy of a salesman. Not cool Dr. T. I trust you less and less.

So I was willing to overlook all the weirdness. If this was really going to help me and, as Dr. T so eagerly added every time he saw me, how much easier it was going to make my labor in the end then I was all in. Now I just wanted to get to the bottom line of how much this all was going to run me, but that, I discovered was something you did with his financial office assistant or whatever her title was, who, turned out to be more elusive than their minimal hours of operation. So, a couple weeks later I finally was able to get into the office when both the doctor and financier were in. I had missed a few days by this point. It was harder for me to make it to their open hours than I initially thought. I was further reminded that I was missing important adjustments with phone calls and voice messages of “relaxin” from the good doctor himself. Oh, sure, lay it on me with a healthy dose of guilt. Something I don’t already struggle with in various avenues of my life. So, one morning, after getting off a 3am shift the same day, I promise myself I’m going to get there before they close at noon. My exhausted self trudges out to the car, scrapes it out, sans scraper (where is that damn thing?), from under the layer of ice from the previous night’s snowstorm and heads into town. The check engine light comes on. Oh, perfect, what next? I make it into town on slick and snowy roads calling ahead to make sure they’re even open. A young man mumbles into the phone that yeah, they are. I’m greeted by the same young man, in faded t-shirt and jeans who has me sign in. He hands me someone else’s chart. I hand it back saying, “This isn’t mine,” he says “Are you sure?” I reply, “Yup, fairly certain my name isn’t Tatiyana.” So, we’re back to Strike Two. This time it’s revving up to be a major unforgiveable strike two. He hands me the correct chart and I head to the first torture chair of the day. The neck stretch. Those of you who know me, know the Incident of the Summer of ’04. My neck is a sensitive subject and I don’t trust it into the care of just anyone. Dr. T assures me this is the best thing for it. I sit through 10 minutes of torture while a sweaty stained chin strap is pulling my head up with 10 lbs of weight and another is pulling my neck forward with a separate 10 lbs. Dr. T needs to look at my x-rays for the 4^th time before he can tell me what my next torture position will be. I had left all my x-rays at his request the last time so he could have this figured out already but alas he had not. One of his minions happily sets the envelope down on the table. I pick it up. It’s too light. I had brought in every x-ray ever taken because he’d asked me to. I open up the envelope. There is only one small one inside. I start to panic. Where are the rest? I tell an office person I’m missing some x-rays. Again, they ask, “Are you sure?” (Why do they keep asking me that?) They retreat and come out empty handed. “That’s gotta be your only x-ray” “Nope, it’s definitely not. I brought in over 50.” A different person goes back this time. She comes back smiling, “There you go, it was filed under your maiden name” (I never gave them my maiden name.) This envelope is still too light. I hate to burst your triumphant bubble you sloppy dressed half-wit but I’m still missing some. “Are you sure?” We go through this exchange 3 more times before I have, what I hope, is all of them. How the heck did they all get separated? They try to laugh it off but I’m no longer in any mood to be jolly. I’m turning into grumpy pregnant lady. Dr. T looks them over again and says he knows which position of traction I need. This time it’s my turn to ask, “Are you sure?” He instructs mumble-voice-jeans-and-t-shirt dude to tie me up. I balk the entire time. He pulls the strap tight around my abdomen and I cry out. “This is way too tight, PS that’s a baby in there, not straight up fat.” He looks up at Dr. T and in the whiniest voice a young guy can muster, “Dad? I don’t know if I’m doing this right, maybe you should do this.” OH GREAT! This kid is his son! ARE YOU KIDDING ME!? I’m trusting the future of my spine and my fetus to this kid. Dr. T, ahem, his dad, comes over, takes one look and says, “Looks fine, you’re doing good.” Hey, listen Doc, I’m a person here, not a craft project! I was so close to losing it. I wheeze out some therapy breaths, thank you Dr. May, and survive the 8 minutes. I get adjusted and since finance gal was finally in, I decide to get the money talk over with once and for all. Is this going to be the difference of putting my kid in an actual nursery or a dresser drawer? I had been told several times by Paul’s co-worker, that Dr. T was great at working with your budget. So far, I had yet to feel this phenomenon. Finance gal hands me the “5 month care plan” and I about choke. It’s equal to a little over six months of rent, two years of car payments or putting a Sleep-Number bed in every room of the Brady Bunch’s house. I try to compose myself. A hormonal deluge of tears are lapping at the floodgates. I ask if there is any sort of way to work out payment plans. She says, “Oh sure, we work with two credit companies that run a credit check and they can break it down to lower payments.” A credit check? For a chiropractic care plan? No flippin’ way. I’m already dealing with the skeezy car salesman of the past summer who ran my credit, twice. I eke out a, “Let me think about it.” I gather my x-rays and walk out the door. Strike Three. I’m out. I make it to the car before calling Paul, releasing the floodgates and formulating my break-up plan. Here’s what I came up with:

"Dr. T, it's you. Not me."

Alright circus girl, show us what you got.

2011-11-20T22:42:00.000-08:00

Week 20

I’ve been taking a pre-natal yoga class. Generally it’s been great. Mostly I love it. I appreciate that there are other women in the room who have embraced the fact that their brains and waistlines are deteriorating as rapidly as mine. Today was different. Our usual Thursday instructor was out for her second week in a row and we had a sub. It’s not entirely unpleasant to have a sub but I never know what to expect, what their style will be, their breathing techniques, what stretches and poses they’ll have us do and sometimes, honestly, it can be more stressful than relaxing.

The sub asks for introductions after our initial warm-ups (‘warm-ups’, can you tell I’m not a guru?) She wants us to say our name, how many weeks and how much yoga we’ve done. Name and weeks? No problem, but amount of yoga? Do I rate myself like a skier about to rent a pair and say I’m ‘intermediate’ but not ‘expert’ because I don’t want the shitty skis? Do I say “expert” and hope she doesn’t expect me to stand on my head? Do I add up in my shrinking brain how many times I’ve done yoga in my head and squawk out an exact number? Do I include the number of times I’ve drunk a cup of yogi tea and followed the instructions on the side of the box? Up until the sub today, introductions meant name, how far along and how pregnancy is going or just sharing about anything. I liked it. It was a chance for hormonal verbal vomit. Sometimes some of us cry, sometimes some of us laugh, we share our bizarro pregger dreams, how bad our acid reflux and heart burn has gotten, how our husbands and partners have given up fighting the pillow pirates that we’ve become, and generally anything that may or may not be appropriate or related to the small humans in all of us. Not today. It was all biz-nass. The other two students in the room, neither of whom I had ever seen before, had me second guessing that I was in the right class. Pregnant female in far left corner had a perpetual look of annoyance on her face, pursed lips, tight jaw. Female next to her was as cheery as a mall Santa at Christmas, but with a black eye. (Don’t know, didn’t ask.) So maybe Santa post Black Friday scuffle. Miss Pursed Lips stayed that way the entire class. I would steal glances in between poses just to make sure. Black Eye apparently had done a lot of yoga before and was hell-bent on showing all of us just how much she could do. She started off by taking off her shirt, revealing her thick muscular abs. (None of us strip down to our braziers.) Not your typical thin sinewy washboard Boulder yoga abs either; they were like a circus performing heavy weight champion’s. I thought, maybe she’s just taking this yoga class for the fun of it or maybe she’s not very far along, because according to her belly, there was very little evidence of a baby inside. She gave her name and pregnancy in weeks and her yoga resume. She’s how far along? Further than me? Did I hear her right? If she is that many weeks, where’s the damn baby? In her butt? She further wow’d us by incorporating every move and then going all out, full blown splits, back-bend, feet over head. I wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or annoyed. I am fully aware that everyone is different, every pregnancy is different but it’s hard not to compare yourself every once in a while. I mean, c’mon. The only back-flips I’m doing are the ones in my head when I’m trying to climb, dig, grapple my way out of bed to go pee for the umpteenth time in a night and even then I sometimes have to ask Paul to give me a little shove. And just when I feel like my stomach can grow no larger I’m hit with the realization that I’m only half-way and expected to more than double in size. Yay, stretch marks. Cheers to belly butter and cheers (reluctantly) to preggers who can still do back-flips at week 21.

Underbelly Confessions

2011-11-11T21:21:00.000-08:00

There's a baby in my belly. There, I said it.

The tiny human sucking the life out of me has also managed to drain me of all creative juices these past few months so I will attempt to update all three of you on the happenings and ponderings of this small seahorse-like creature.

Filling you in first with a previous written confession of several months ago when it was too early to tell whether the little guy or gal was going to stick around for the long haul.

Week 1, er 3:

I’m counting it as week one because I’m just now aware of the poppyseed.

I’m looking at it and not believing it, the little magic wand, not the poppyseed, obviously I can’t see that. The advertised comfort handle doesn’t do much to distract from the two pink lines, although it is quite nice. I’m suddenly thinking, why pink? Why not blue? Or green? Are they insinuating that it’s going to be a girl, or maybe because you’re a girl you’d be pre-disposed to want a girl? Color aside. Its positive. I wait two more days, another magic wand. Still two pink lines. I should probably call and set up an appointment with a doctor. Maybe I’m still in shock. Maybe I’m still thinking its not real. Maybe, if I don’t go to the doctor, I can still just stay in my own little world. Well, our little world. Paul’s in this as much as me, granted, his body isn’t going to be dramatically altered, distorted, but his life will be.

I guess I always assumed I’d have kids at some point, but leaving work today it hit me that I never processed that I would, or what that actually looked like. That my life is going to definitely change. It changed somewhat on the 4^th of July when we picked up our puppy Zooey from Hays, KS but a dog is something that you could possibly return. There is no shoving a 2 year old back into your uterus. Sure, I see cute kids and I think, uh, I could have one of those. But reality is, it’s not like you’re staring at the menu at Noodles & Co and picking out lunch for the day.

Maybe I want to stay in the excitement of the unknown but maybe the going to the doctor, and, horrors, having a pelvic exam, will shove me into reality.

Maybe part of me wonders if this is even for real. That I’m going to wake up and discover it was just a long dream. I think I want it, I’ve thought about it for years but what if I’m not ready. What if he or she hates me? What if I’m not a good mom? All kids hate their parents at some point right? I guess I'll find out, because I'm on the train now and it ain't stoppin'.

Bow to Your Sensei!

2009-02-07T11:18:00.000-08:00

Here is a thorough, but in no way exhaustive, list of things to keep in mind for your next karate class:

You shouldn’t warm up on the first day by trying to do the splits between two chairs. You should probably stay away from splits altogether on the first day.
Don’t whisper, “I think I could take him.” While the instructor is doing a practical demonstration for the whole class.
The crane kick is NOT indefensible.
Breaking boards, ice or bricks is not all in the mind and breathing deeply beforehand doesn’t help.
It’s not polite to yell, “SWEEP THE LEG!” or “Finish Him!” While other students are sparring.
Wedgies, Nookies, Monkey Bites and Titty-Twisters are all illegal moves, though highly effective.
You should probably wear something underneath your Gi.
Screaming in a high pitched voice and quivering after you deliver a deadly blow is frowned upon.
Backhanding someone in their jiggly-bits and yelling, “Cup Check!” is not appropriate.
It’s not okay to slap your partner’s tushy, even after a particularly good move.
Snatching something out of the instructors hand doesn’t make you the new instructor.
Ambushing other students in the locker room isn’t a good way to keep them sharp.
Challenging someone to a “cage match” is not an option.
Vulcan neck pinches just piss people off.
Using available items like chairs, two-by-fours or trash cans is not seen as innovative.
Whispering, “I’ll take you to the bank, the blood bank!” doesn’t make you seem tough.
Tasting your own blood or anybody else’s while sparring can be off putting.
It turns out that just claiming to be a black belt is not enough.
Blindfolding yourself and ordering others to strike you is not a good idea.
And, it’s usually counterproductive to give your opponent one free shot.

Backpacks

2009-02-06T12:57:00.000-08:00

There is a very real misconception out there and I’d like to take the time to correct it. Backpacks are meant to be worn on your back and not down about your butt. I know…I know it’s confusing, “why would they put such long straps on a backpack if you aren’t suppose to extend them all the way?” But, we’ve seen this kind of mistake before.

For the longest time people didn’t understand what those tiny little loops surrounding the waist band of their pants were for. This unfortunate error led to an entire generation having to wear their pants around their knees and boxer shorts to avoid embarrassment. Fortunately, as our amazing race always does, one bright lad saw the loops and discovered, by slipping a finger through one, he could hold his pants up! This revolutionary adaptation, while limiting dexterity, gave man the use of his legs again. The importance of this evolutionary step, linking modern man to his less mobile cousin of old, cannot be underestimated. Of course, in modern times, we’ve eliminated the problem all together by making men’s pants so tight there is no chance of them ever falling down or even coming off. While this newest develop does limit our ability to procreate, we will never have to wear boxer shorts again! In that regard, country western singers were way ahead of time.

Backpacks are the logical next step, if we don’t want our children calling them asssacks, we’ve got to find a way to tighten those straps. I know it might be uncomfortable at first, but if that brave young man could slip his finger through that loop and pull his pants up for the decency and mobility of all mankind then you can wear your backpack on your back.

Hoping for Change

2009-02-05T12:32:00.000-08:00

Well, its official folks, the economy is in the pooper and we’re all doomed to lives of rags and old cabbage. I know it’s depressing but we’ve got to play the cards we’re dealt and keep our chins up. Let’s keep hoping for change, both literally and figuratively, and maybe the change fairy (named Hope coincidently) will dump a whole load of it in our collective back yard. Where we can bag it up and take it to the local Wal-Mart with one of those coin counting machines. You know the ones that count your money and take half of it; but at least you don’t have to count it yourself. Then maybe we can figure out just how much change Hope brought us. Until then, here are some common sense ways you can tighten the old belt strap until that mischievous little sprite arrives:

1.) Develop a color coded, bar-graph-like, warning system to tell you what your current financial situation is. I’m telling you folks, it’s the first thing our government did after 9/11 to warn us about potential terrorist threats and we’ve been perfectly safe ever since. If there’s an impending disaster, it’s better to be prepared. Besides, if you can keep your finances in the yellow to orange region, you should be just fine.

2.) This next one is just plain common sense. If you’re short on money and can’t pay your bills you need to start making more. I mean it, start making more money. Granted, the paper can be a little hard to come by and the holographic images are a bitch, but the payoff is fantastic. You can pretend you don’t have any financial problems indefinitely!

3.) Finally, if one of your investments is bringing down your whole portfolio (oh, I don’t know, let’s just say something in auto industry) you should never just cut your losses. No way! I say throw everything you’ve got at it and if you don’t have anything left, it’s time for an eighth mortgage. You never know, it maybe your money that keeps them afloat. Besides, the more money you give them the more likely they are to get it right in the long run. It’s pretty much a win-win for everybody.

I know it can be tough, but it’s important for us to follow the examples set by our elected officials. Remember, if it’s good enough for America then its good enough for you. In the mean time, don’t give up, keep hoping for Change and changing for Hope.

BAN THE BULGE!!!

2009-01-31T12:41:00.000-08:00

I’ve decided to take a stand. I am wholeheartedly against spandex. I realize, that spandex, in and of itself, may seem harmless enough; but in the wrong hands (read: on the wrong behind), I assure you, it’s deadly. You might argue that it looks fine on some people to which I would say, that may be; but on the vast majority of us it does not look fine. And because of that said vast majority I am recommending, nay demanding, that spandex be ban in all its forms. Let’s face it, being naked, without really being naked is not okay. Let’s not allow these “decent” exhibitionists to literally stretch the moral fabric of our society. You don’t see nudist colonies anymore, that’s because they’ve all purchased really expensive bicycles, “clothed” themselves in spandex and now flaunt their goodies at every neighborhood coffee shop in America. Don’t let their friendly banter or disarming smiles fool you, they’re the same shaved legged perverts who used to play “all natural” volleyball behind privacy fences. Thats right forlks, they've taken their “show” on the road, but it doesn’t mean we have to stand for it. Unite with me in stopping this very real threat to the very sensibilities that made us great. Say, no to spandex and BAN THE BULGE!

The hand's off landlord

2008-08-31T18:53:00.000-07:00

Paul and I are heading up to the mountains for a Labor Day Vaca. Being the responsible tenants that we are, we called our landlord to ask if he wanted us to pay next month's rent before we left or if he wouldn't mind waiting till we returned on the 2nd. I should preface the following story with some anonymous details of our landlord.

One, he had our apartment's previous tenant find the new renters, us. Two, he prefers cash. Three, we have yet to meet him at the same place twice.

We called him on the phone and are literally walking out the door to drive to the mountains and he asks if we could pay today rather than wait till we return on Tuesday. We said ok, and where did he want us to meet him. He gave us instructions to another one of his properties, this one called “Smuggler's Cove” and to meet him at 1:30pm. We kill a couple hours and reach the complex at 1:25 and call back to get the condo number. He says it will be the one with work trucks outside and presumably the garage door open. He also waits till now to inform us that someone named Andrew will be receiving the cash. Paul had pulled over on the side of the road to receive these oh-so-specific instructions and 90 seconds into the conversation enters older gentlemen onto the scene. He pulls up to the window and rolls down his passenger window, motioning for Paul to roll his down. Paul obeys but is still on the phone. This is when aforementioned person proceeds to berate Paul for apparently having blocked his ritualistic tight turn onto the Smuggler's property. Clearly Paul is on the phone, as it's up to his left ear. The guy isn't deterred and continues to yell at us while now completely blocking the road to both lanes in desperation to make his point. He starts to angrily wave his cell phone in the air, miming that if we don't move he's calling someone. Paul pulls forward slightly, I guess enough to satisfy the constipated grump who drives off to leave Paul to finish up with our landlord. It still takes us a few loops around the apartment/condo/duplex homes to find the one he was talking about. Paul runs inside, pays the Andrew character, also getting him to sign a torn envelope that he received it, and then we're off for a three-day weekend away from the crazies.

Who's your Daddy?

2008-08-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

So this update is long over-due and I have a list of excuses, yadayada yada so let me just get on with it.

We have settled in Boulder Colorado for the time being; at least until life decides to pull the asphalt up to our door again and drop us off again at some other near or distant location. Paul got a job at the Boulder REI and he starts CU Boulder orientation August 18th. On that same day I will begin setting up my classroom/"pod" with my 2 fellow teachers at Boulder Journey School, referred to as BJS. In a long list of ironies that is my life, add to it one more: it is New Zealand's sister school I was previously working at and of which I wonder how related it is...its vaguely similar in that it shares the same basic philosophy of teaching but culture, location and a variety of personalities that make up its framework give it vast differences. (If you are privy enough to know my personal blog, check there for more oddities, or email me for the account.)

Now for an anecdote: Paul and I thought we'd use our time this summer to slam ourselves into shape for living at 5,400' above sea level (1,650 for you metric lovers). Paul has signed up for his first marathon this September and I recently competed in my second triathalon...I'm not going to get nit-picky with sharing details, suffice to say I didn't drown during the swimming and actually crossed the final finish line by myself, (and i use, 'by myself' loosely). The week prior to my tri, Paul suggested we do a training ride from Boulder to Lyons, a town about 18 miles away. I was all for it, especially since there was rumor of a coffee shop and I'm a sucker for beans. The ride was fairly routine including a few butt-numbing hills and we made it to Lyons in good time and start our search for a java shoppe. We spot one on main street. I get the usual, black fully-leaded, and Paul orders his. We choose a table outside for a few reasons: 1, we want to keep an eye on our bikes, 2, we wanted to save fellow patrons from smelling our lycra and 3, we wanted to save fellow patrons from staring at our lycra clad bodies. I sit down while Paul waits inside for his order. Immediately a friendly six-year-old girl hops up on the chair next to me. We start to chat about the lap dog that she just 'rescued' from another patron one table over who is now being dragged by its collar while afore mentioned kindergartner forces her threw a maze of table legs. Paul sits down and we start to ask her about her summer and if she's having fun, etc. Mid conversation she stops, looks at Paul, looks at me and in a voice reserved for secrets among playmates turns to me and asks, "Is he your Dad?" I try not to laugh. Paul shoots me a "not funny" glare. And almost before I can answer the dog-dragging girl is onto another subject. I could look at it two ways, obviously neither is good: she thinks I'm about 10 years old or that Paul is 40. Paul wasn't too excited about her observation but at least it made for a good story.

A toast to you, our beautiful fans!

2008-06-23T14:26:00.000-07:00

In all fairness, I will now admit that we have more than 2 readers. I guess I just didn't realize people cared as much as they do. My apologies to you Grandma, the queen of rok, and anyone else offended by our measly count.

I will try to give you the latest update, however many you are.

I have been in Denver for a couple weeks now and Paul just joined me. We returned to the States from New Zealand after some family mishaps and will now be here for at least the next nine months, (nine months has nothing to do with a gestation period, just in case you were thinking that). Paul will be able to take classes at CU Boulder to keep up with his coursework until we are able to return to the magical land of Zealand that is 'New' and I will be teaching, hopefully, at the Bear Park sister school in Boulder. Slightly ironic isn't it?

So, we are officially back. We don't have cell phone plans yet, just in case the masses of fans that we have want to start ringing us off the hizzy, so for now, email us...but we are back and will be updating you on any new crazy accounts that seem to happen to us all too often no matter where we live.

Dog Shi-ca-ca

2008-06-15T15:15:00.000-07:00

By now hopefully all two of our readers have caught up on the fact that we are no longer in New Zealand. We have returned to the land of the Obama's, Clinton's and McCain's. We aren't making this political, we are only mentioning this because we thought we might miss this very controversial election, come November, and seeing as neither of the choices are good ones we were not unhappy about missing all the ensuing drama.

But back to the task at hand...updating you, our lone reader. (yes, you Jen.) Other than major family drama that i'll spare you from at this current time, Paul and i celebrated our 1 year anniversary. Our original celebration destination was a toss up between Rotorua Mud Baths in New Zealand that come complete with cabins, tea time and mud OR surfing in Piha (world class beach) and we figured we couldn't go wrong. Our surprise return to the states took us for a loop, a BIG loop, therefore landing us in Indianapolis on our special date and calling in a compromise: the promise of a dog, our very own. Our current problem is: we are a little on the homeless side and its easier to find a bed for two people than a bed for two people and a dog. Not sure why, but not all people are dog lovers, so, we decided on this faux-furry creature for the time being. Our only solace is that we don't have to walk him or pick up his daily poo.

Designer fraternity

2008-05-12T16:28:00.000-07:00

Ludolph McGaffin is the named opaquely emblazoned on the glass window of the shop i walk past on my way to work. Its a symmetrically square shop/house. It boasts a well manicured, though tiny, yard and an inviting glow from within. Centrally located cement stairs lead up to the main door while two show windows on either side display the designer gowns of the week on cotton muslin mannequins, one per window. Its a rather classy shop. Surrounded by doctor's office buildings, a police station, St. Mark's Church, a rival preschool and what appears to be a house taken over by alcoholic cockroaches. It sits immediately next to Ludolphs, separated only by shrubs. The yard seems to never have less than 36 beer cans and/or bottles. An abandoned couch sits on the half porch and a pinic table takes up what little lawn the property affords. Graffiti covers the windows and a crack runs through one of them. The first couple times i passed it i thought it was abandoned. I decided it wasn't after noticing how the bottles and cans rotated and the recycle bin on the edge of the sidewalk was always on a new level of full. On the morning after St. Patty's day i had to step over a puddle of puke that appeared to have projected across the lawn and onto the sidewalk, probably originating 5 hours before my daily trek to work. I wondered at how a designer shop ended up next to such a frat pad. I noticed something on the windows of the rubbish abode, the opaque font, identical to the design shoppe next door. I asked the girls at work. Turns out that the designer used to rent what was now the trash house and then the lease ran out so they moved next door. They weren't sure of the details but apparently the previous site of the afore mentioned shop had been left in pristine condition and then decimated about 3 hours after the new tenants moved in. They thought that either the new guys were relatives of the owner or the owner was overseas and was clueless to the demise of his property. Either way, they had sufficiently demolished the place, making it look days away from being condemned. Way to go guys. Bringing down the property value for everyone, even in Newmarket.

What it tastes like

2008-05-03T22:09:00.000-07:00

If you want to know what horse feed tastes like or perhaps shredded cardboard with bits of dried sour apricots mixed in it...Buy this box, if you are lucky you'll find a semi-sweet raisin. Good news is its 98% fat free and currently on sale. Bad news is it was no Delite to eat. You'll have jaws so muscular after just one bowl that even Arnold will be jealous.

We are petitioning the company to change their name from 'Sunreal' to 'Sureal'. Or just to simply omit their product off the market entirely...it really wouldn't be that much of a loss. Eating competition athletes have been banned from eating this because it gives them an unfair advantage, its like steroids for your cheeks.

Sounds of my daily commute

2008-05-01T22:11:00.000-07:00

Paul usually leaves for the university, or 'Uni' as the peeps refer to it here, 20-30 minutes before i leave for work. I putter around our dime sized apartment, finishing my breakfast, watching the morning news with Paul and Pippa and count out my train fare for my pocket. Then, its out the door to Bear Park, learning center for little ones with small legs and arms and in the process of graduating from nappies to knickers.

The glass door slides shut and a key locks it.
My rubber soled sandals squeak on the slate bridge echoing between the glass sides.
The exit security door beeps its release and i use my entire body weight to push it open.
It slams behind me and re-beeps the lock.
The gravel crunches as i cut across the parking lot.
My soles slap on the stairs as i descend below Britomart and the tunnels and the trains beneath.
The train screeches and clicks on the tracks as it pulls up.
The brakes groan as it stops.
Clinking, moaning, grating of the train as the cars pull and resist one another.
The beep beep beep of the door alarm sounds the ok to open.
The clatter and squeak of the temporary footpath scaffolding as all the pieces groan under the weight of the busy crowd heading off in a myriad of directions.

The espresso machine whirs and steams and i listen for the clink of the ceramic on the wooden table surface as i pass Organic Nutmeg.
The rev of the car engines accelerate up the hill.

The crosswalk chimes the go ahead to go.

The woman with the hula skirt purse and bubblegum pink lipstick's high heels rhythmically click clack on the cement we pass each other.
The miniature button springs squeeze as i push the code to get into the school.
Door hinges noisily protest on rusty hinges.
As i enter, a wave of cries, playful screams, talking, laughing and quietly in the distance, Jack Johnson sings from the cd player in the far corner of the toddler classroom.

My day has begun.

Yeah, that's right, these little kiwis listen to surfer music...

Bear Park

2008-05-01T21:50:00.000-07:00

As some of you may have heard, I finally got a teaching job. 'Officially' they have offered me a job as an early childhood educator for the process of my work permit. 'Unofficially' i've been hanging out with little kiddos for a little over 5 weeks now. I work with a team of three other teachers in our classroom since we have the highest count of little persons. We have anywhere from 14-18 kids depending on the amount of time and day of the week the parent wishes their tyke to the come. The way the early level schools work here is the child is transitioned into the classroom at the time of his or her birthday. It has its pluses and minuses. Say you have a couple 5 year olds who have birthdays in January, they'd all start together. Then you have a kid that doesn't turn 5 till March or even April, they wouldn't transition into that class until then. So, while they are now closer to being developmentally equal, they could possibly be socially behind since those kids have already formed relationships with each other. For the most part though i really appreciate their teaching philosophy here and this place, like a good number of European countries, is more family orientated and they take their vacation days religiously. One week, maybe 2 kids are 'on holiday' with their families and the next week another kid is, regardless of actual holiday days. One little girl has been gone with her family the entire time i've been at the learning centre but we get updates from their trip to South Africa that we share with the kids who squeal with delight when they see pictures of her and who fight over who gets to wear her sun hat in the playground.

We apparently have a sister school in Boulder, CO that we have a teacher exchange program with. One of my co-teachers will be heading up there soon for the rest of the year pending her US work visa. I'm not sure how strict they stick to the 'exchange' aspect since i haven't heard news of them sending one down here but small world anyway, huh?

And now that you probably learned more about the education system of a small school on the under, yet beautiful, side of this planet than you ever wanted to know, over and out.

Names omitted to protect the guilty

2008-04-19T21:37:00.000-07:00

We now resume our anecdotes of our life down under, but will forever miss the faithful comments of '-just dad'.

Part of the process of working legally down here includes going in to a doctor for that all important 'seal of health' so the government can verify that i'm not going to cause widespread panic with some communicable disease. An appointment was set and my schedule was cleared. Paul had already gotten his pat on the back for good health by a university doctor and returned with a glowing report of how pleasant the experience was. I could only hope mine would be the same.

Its a two day process. The first day you get evaluated, weighed, measured, x-rayed, and blood drawn. The second day you go back for your report of findings with the doc. I sat in the waiting room till my name was called. I was so engrossed in the book i was reading that Paul had to nudge me to remind me my name was Jessica when the doctor came out. I quickly followed her to the exam room. She lead the way into her room looking over her shoulder briefly to tell me A: she was the doctor and B: take off my shirt. I paused for a second thinking i hadn't heard her correctly. I thought she was just going to hand me my medical certificate and say i was good to go. She got to her desk and then turned abruptly toward me, her face expectant and tone demanding. She repeated herself. Where did this doctor train? Possibly back in Germany when black swastikas flew on red flags? I quickly peeled off my sweaty t-shirt. She had me go through a series of reflex tests and muscle measurements all the while barking at me about my health and immediate family history. She asked if i'd ever had anything major happen to me. I paused for a second thinking she could already read my thoughts and since i fault too often on the side of honesty, and by this point i was scared shirtless i blurted out that i had broken my neck back in '04, then immediately regretted it. I began backtracking. I told her i got the seal of approval from a spine and neurological doctor. The damage was already done and she now even more intensely interrogated and added i needed to take off my pants. I did so while asking if this would affect my visa status and she said she didn't think so but as she banged my knee with the knee knocker my left knee didn't jump as far as my right. It felt like she wasn't hitting it in the correct spot but this new discovery sent her into a tizzy and she wrote down that my left lower extremity reflex was inconsistent. She moved the knocker closer to the center and my leg flew out nearly kicking her in the kneecap. I sighed with relief. Maybe now she'd cross out or change what she wrote...clearly i was ok. Nope. The damage was already done. I was defective.

I'll find out if i'm immigration worthy in a couple more weeks.

PS. since this took so long to post due to lack of internet connection i have now found out that my visa request has now been sent to the medical assessor due to possibly having un-immigratable defects.

A Son's Last Words

2008-03-19T19:13:00.000-07:00

My father was a huge man, a giant in both stature and intellect. His 6'4", three hundred pound frame dominated any room and his intelligence was evident in even the most casual of conversations. My grandmother told me he read an entire set of encyclopedias, cover to cover, as a sophomore in high school. Most people knew him as Doctor Taylor, a professional at the top of a lucrative medical career, respected by patients and colleagues alike. I knew him as dad.

He was a master chess player and an amateur astronomer with a fascination for the sky and the great beyond. He was a SCUBA diver, a competitive shooter, and a pilot. He was an outdoors man, a Civil War buff, and a Star Trek-y. He was a man who enjoyed life in all its aspects and lived every moment to the fullest. He had a deep, full belly laugh that was infectious and matched his build and personality perfectly. At night I would hear him laugh from my bedroom as he talked with my mother or watched late night TV. For me, those laughs were reassuring. They acted as a warm security blanket against the doubts of darkness and the cold of night. My mother speaks fondly of his rich singing voice and tells me I would kick in her womb to the rhythm of his songs. Their marriage wasn't easy or perfect, but they stayed together and loved each other to the end. Despite a world set against marriage and the vows of matrimony.

If I sound like a son with an inadequacy complex, then you are probably getting an accurate picture. My father presented an image and lived a life that is hard to live up to. He never meant to pressure me or measure me against his accomplishments, but the self-created pressure was there and still is in many ways. As a teenager and young adult, I resented it to the point of irrational and often undirected anger. I had a hard time finding myself or my place in life; very little fit and what did wasn't good enough (in my eyes) or didn't fully remove me from my father's massive shadow. This inner conflict, which erupted into explosive arguments with my dad, came to an apex when I graduated from high school. He wanted me to go to college and I wanted to do things myself, so I joined the Navy and left with little more than a good-bye. I was gone for four years. When I left, my father was a healthy middle-aged man in the prime of his physical and professional life. When I returned, he was in the ravages of a disease that physically destroyed him.

His illness came as a complicated collage of problems as precise and methodical as the man they attacked. Slowly it stripped him of everything that had surrounded the man I knew as my dad. His physical presence, his hobbies and his career were all taken from him over a very short period of time. Even his beautiful singing voice was reduced to a gravelly whisper. But my dad remained. The loving and doting father he had always been shown even brighter in the face of his daunting illness. For over a decade he struggled through ups and downs, never fully recovering but always getting back up. My father fought for more time with his family and lived to see all of his children married and the arrival of three grandchildren. A few months ago, he told me his illness had been a blessing and that he had fallen in love with our mom all over again.

I didn't get to say good-bye to my dad the night he died. But, if I had been afforded that opportunity, I would have put my arms around him and held him the way he used to hold me when I skinned my knees. I would have said, "I love you dad and in many ways I am you. Your voice, your laugh, and your love will always be with me. If I could take your place, if I could take your illness from you, I would, but God hasn't answered that prayer. So, I will do everything I can to make you proud and live up to your expectations, both expressed and unexpressed. You are my role model and hero. Anything I become or am able to accomplish in this life, I owe to you. By no means were you a perfect father and by no means am I a perfect son; but for all your flaws and for all of mine, you are my best friend and a man of whom I am proud to be called son."

I Love You Dad

Bus Stop Tizzy

2008-03-11T20:47:00.000-07:00

now that paul's in school during the week we are trying to make to most of our weekends. this time we were expanding our exploration via ferry. we decided on waiheke island. we weren't sure what we were going to do when we got there but all journeys begin with a single step so we stepped onto the ferry. it filled to max occupation and we started to skim across the water. thirty minutes later we arrived. everyone stood up and resembling a herd of cattle slowly made our way to the exit ramp. as we were inching along down the steps of the top deck i heard american accents behind me. i took a quick glance to see their faces and realized they were talking to the girl immediately on my left and by immediate i mean i could have sipped on the coffee cooler she was holding and she wouldn't have noticed. i looked at her. i'm almost embarrassed to say i knew who she was. none other than the quirky boutique cashier from disney's 'the suite life of zack and cody': miss ashley tisdale. in my defense i'll state that when you are babysitting and the kid is napping and you can't figure out how to explore the other 956 channels for fear of not being able to change it back you often have no other choice but to watch the disney channel. i'm not well versed in the ways of the popular and famous but i'm gonna guess that if some well-known person is on an obscure crowded ferry going to a obscure island with little to no fanfare they probably don't want to be recognized. i could be wrong but i'm thinking they would periodically get sick of being called out in a crowd. i know i would. i was more interested in making conversation merely because they were american and when you're scuttling along like farm animals with absolutely no personal space it sometimes makes it less awkward. sometimes? i turned to one of the guys that was with her and asked him where they were from. he happily responded, 'oh, california'. then he asked me the same question. i told him i was from denver, colorado but recently moved with my husband to auckland. he replied with a 'wow, that's cool' and tapped the girl on the arm saying 'hey, ashley, they're from denver, colorado.' she glanced up and replied with a less than enthusiastic, 'oh, huh'. i asked the guy if they were staying in auckland, he said they were, more specifically at the hyatt. i contemplated joking why they weren't increasing paris' inheritance by staying at the hilton but didn't think it would go over very well. at this point the two bigger guys pulling up the rear were starting to eye me in a bodyguard type protective fashion. so i dropped it by adding 'oh, that's cool'. the foot traffic started to pick up speed so i caught up with paul and we closed in on the exit. we left the ferry in search of adventure. we weren't sure how big the island was but we were pretty sure we didn't want to walk the entire thing. we headed to the rental area of all things on wheels. after discovering all renting options were well beyond what we intended to spend for the day we decided on braving the bus system. we purchased two all-day bus passes for $8 a piece. not bad. now, where to catch a bus. after getting some vague direction from the ticket man we stepped up to edge of the sidewalk. we still must have looked confused (possibly betrayed by the opened map in our hands) because a gentleman came up and asked if we needed help. he said the next bus would be along in 15 minutes but if we didn't want to wait, the next swim-able beach was only a 15 minute walk away. not wanting to waste any time on this beautiful day we decided to walk it. what started out as impatience to wait for a bus turned into an all day hike zig-zagging across the width and breadth of the entire island. we stopped for lunch, we stopped for a swim, we took pictures along the way but every time we stopped for a bus we would wait for what seemed an eternity, no matter how many others were waiting at a particular bus stop. by the end of the day we made it to the other end of the island and since daylight wasn't going to hold out for us we found the next closest bus stop and waited. we waited...and waited...and waited. others came and waited and went. some making conversation with us, some just standing with us but inevitably they would stick out a thumb for a free ride or a taxi ride or start walking. what kind of bus system was this?? we had yet to use our passes and were now determined to wait till a bus came even if that meant till the last supposedly scheduled bus at 11:30 that night. as the sun was sinking and all but a flicker of hope was gone, one screeched to a stop, nearly running us over. we bounced up the steps with excitement and proudly flashed our passes. what had taken us about 6 hours to walk took us about 20 minutes on the return. it was the first vehicle i had been in since arriving over a month ago and it felt like we were breaking the sound barrier. paul said, "my poor wife', giving me a condescending pat, 'you think we're flying when we're only on a bus." it truly is relative. we made it to the ferry landing just as another one was loading. at least the ferries stay on schedule. we found some seats, this time below deck and zoned out, amused at the irony of 'all-day' bus passes. it takes you all day just to catch one. we landed in auckland, exited and walked the five blocks home.

Mission: Follicle Lobber

2008-03-08T20:34:00.000-08:00

in paul's effort to cut out barber costs (pun not intended) he wanted to get a hair trimmer. we decided to check out the warehouses supply. if you haven't heard about the warehouse, you now will. we believe its new zealand's version of, dare i say it, wal-mart. there are two locations within walking distance for us, one is four blocks west of us off queen street, the other is a couple miles away on broadway. the farther one is, of course, the better one: clean, neat, huge selection. the closer one is...well...crappy. their shelves are filled with product but the store resembles a forgotten carnival recently ransacked by prepubescent vikings and if you want to track down a sales representative practice first by trying to capture a bunny or a chicken in forest. they thoroughly train in evasive maneuvers. we had only one goal, find and buy a hair trimmer. paul had done some pre-op surveillance so he knew where the desired items were kept. not wanting to waste time we headed directly to the site. the shelf, like the rest, were ransacked and this time not only could we not find one for sale, the one that had been on display was missing, leaving its box and length adapters behind. we didn't like the idea but we knew we were going to have to ask for help. we zoomed in one red-shirt uniformed 'gary'. he caught our gaze and dashed. we followed him to the back-stock doors. you can run gary but you can't hide for long. he came back out and we had him surrounded, all two of us. he suddenly put on a polite customer service smile realizing his running was futile. we asked him if they had any more hair trimmers, in another place? maybe in back-stock?? he searched his obviously vast mental inventory for all of one second and answered with a definite 'no', he chuckled, motioning to the shelves, saying he was waiting for replenishment. as if his only job was to wait on quickly disappearing hair trimmers. we got the message that he now realized his store looked like crap too. ya think? we said thanks and he hurried off. we did another look-a-round. we had a feeling there were more. somewhere. as we were rounding the aisle a second time i looked up on the top shelf where they keep their overstock boxed items. i saw two boxes with the words 'hair trimmer kit' and 'item count: 8'. so up above us were supposedly 16 hair trimmer kits. now, how to get our hands on one. we surveyed for another red-shirt. they had scattered like cockroaches when the kitchen light comes on. we expanded our search. paul found a wheeled ladder 3 aisles down. that would be pretty bold and we weren't sure if we'd get away with that so we were left with one option: monkey style. climb the shelf. i climbed first. i reached the box but it was too heavy and i wouldn't be able to hold on and lower the box at the same time. paul's turn. his height was a severe advantage since he only needed to stand on the second shelf up to reach the top whereas i had to stand on the 4th to merely touch the box. he pulled the box down. another customer wandered into the aisle and ignored our shenanigans. apparently this was common procedure here. we opened the box. ahhhh! victory! we extracted one and made our way to the cashiers. we bought it and headed down the escalators for our champion exit. we high-fived each other and exchanged the words of one controversial borat, "great success!"

Excellent Marketing Tips

2008-03-04T18:32:00.000-08:00

I caught the local NZ news this morning. A computer guy was on the set with them, showing them two new computers that his company had just recently developed and released, one being their response to the Mac Book Air and the other one was a Ferrari model of the Acer. I'm not quite sure what sort of response they were going for. The news-persons started to prompt answers for their seemingly necessary questions. It had the same size screen and was roughly the same in weight but that was where the similarities stopped. This bundle of half-witted technology was black, thicker in size, had slower processing and could be purchased for about double what it cost to purchase the 'Air'. I have a feeling they are definitely going to sell a lot of those! Watch out NZ Mac Market, you have got competition! The Ferrari model wasn't much better. They are only releasing 19 for the entire country and if you want to be a lucky Kiwi to own a one-in-nineteen version computer with a car logo on the lid you only have to pay $4,899.00. I'd have to agree with the news gal. It looked tacky. The computer spokesperson seemed like he didn't even like the product, or maybe that he didn't really know anything about them. I'm not sure what kind of presentation he was going for other than perhaps a mildly planned farce. That, or he was sacked by lunchtime. 'Cause after that i could tell you exactly how many they are going to sell. Zero. Nada. Zilch. Oooh, i just thought of something...maybe he works for Apple.

What comes down

2008-03-03T18:22:00.000-08:00

Shortly after the flying banana incident a flesh-free orange peel was deposited on our door-step. This past weekend our apartment started to fill with essence of eu du cigarette. I looked out our front door and inches away was a smoking cylinder of death, its red embers flashing. A stiffer breeze and it would have been blown inside to work its magic on a hole in our carpet. Annoyed, i picked it up and dipped it in a nearby puddle. Listening as it sizzled. I tossed its soggy carcass a bit farther out into the courtyard, wanting to get as far away from it as possible. (you might be wondering at this point why we don't just shut our door to stop flying foreign objects from coming in. that would be a good idea except its the only way we have to let fresh air in, and here they don't have screens. anywhere. so if we are to let in fresh air, the door must be open, thus the possibility of other things coming in as well.)

Have the local seagulls picked up the nasty habit? i feared this incident had human velocity behind it.

Up above us the two towering apartment buildings were talking to each other. Building 3, sixth floor 2-bedroom apartment was a Canadian from Vancouver Island trying to get himself invited over to building 4, apartment 716 for drinks. He shares his apartment with his girlfriend and another guy and they have been here for a couple months and haven't had a chance to meet any friends. I only know this because he was telling them all this. Scratch that, yelling them all this. It was the patrons to a certain 716 that were flicking their unwanted cancer sticks down and to our doorstep and trying to gracefully evade the obvious invite. I thought about buzzing myself up and bringing them an ash tray as a welcoming gift and asking them to stop throwing their crap down. Paul said he'd only let me go up if they threw another one down.

I perched myself on our doorstep for the next two minutes, peering into the dark night until i was bleary-eyed and exhausted and paul suggested i give up my vigil and come to bed. Oh 716, one of these days i'll meet you. I'll meet you with an ash tray or the patch in my hand, it all depends on my mood, peeps, it all depends on my mood.

The race is on

2008-03-02T16:41:00.000-08:00

Well, its not really a race, per say. maybe a journey? a trek? a hike? a tramp, if you will? Anyway...hubbub aside. Today is Paul's first day of school. Obviously not first day of school ever, if that were true he would be quite literate and intuitive for someone who had never any formal training. Its the first day of med school. I met up with Paul at Albert Park with some grub and to get his half-day report. So far classes are going smoothly. The older students are already congregating in the front of the classrooms and they almost need riot control police for masses of humanity breathing in and out of rooms to hallways to rooms during class switches. He's received 2 more study volumes from his professors is expecting another one this afternoon and packed out his mountainsmith day bag that he had to cave and get a backpack during a class break. Current weather is a high of 21C, wind of 6km/hr, partly cloudy and a forecast of 0% chance of rain by 4 o'clock.

Keeping you up to date and in the know this is Jessy Taylor reporting live from University of Auckland Central Campus. Back to you, Reader.

Incognito

2008-02-24T16:16:00.000-08:00

We Americans are odd creatures. It seems over the past few years we've almost been scared into blending to point of getting annoyed when we are discovered. Sure, you get the occasional girl or guy that all too happy to share their entire life story in one breath with anyone who'll listen, but on the whole, especially when traveling, we shrink from being discovered as a red, white and blue kid. I met one such dude yesterday. I was coming up to a cross-walk, anxious to catch up to Paul who was already in the student lounge talking to his parents on Skype. Already waiting for the walk signal was a guy wearing Chacos and an REI messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Call-out time! (hehe heh.) I came up on his left.

"Where in the States are you from?"
Startled that anyone was even talking to him, "I'm from the United S..." realizing a second into his answer what i had asked him. "Uh, Virginia" "How did you know?" He scowled.
"Your chacos." and then i added, "and your REI bag."
He still looked perturbed. The little green walk man lit up. We started to cross.
"Where are you from?" Now realizing he could actually start a conversation.
"Colorado" i paused, "Denver" (to solidify my rights to know all things Chaco and REIish)
He headed straight as i turned left to cross over the next street to get to Paul. He paused for a second.
"They don't have Chacos here?" He had shock in his voice, not sure if it was because he suddenly faced with the prospect of never finding a second pair here or because he'd been clearly type-casted.
"Nope, I figured you were either Canadian or American, then your bag sealed the deal."
He slowly walked straight ahead, bewildered.
"Have a nice day."
"Uh, same, uh, to you."

I think he ran back to his room to switch his shoes and bag. Who knows though, maybe the comfort of his sandals and his sturdy bag won out over his embarrassment.

Was that mean of me? I was getting bored and needed a bit of amusement, but c'mon, at least it wasn't as embarrassing as my tramping bit.

Guess what?! New additions

2008-02-23T15:57:00.000-08:00

No, not kids. Get your mind out of the gutter.

In addition to our mattress, which we so proudly prosed about in a previous post, and a most fantastic lovingly shared Antarctica mug that Lucas bequeathed to us (that i drink from on days that end in "y" and Paul uses the other times), we've added a few more items to Apartment 133. We now own a small pot, 2 bowls and 2 plates. While it was fun to create ways to eat using the packaging that our food came in it didn't always work to our benefit (carpet fuzz in food is not the ideal condiment) and we deemed some more dishes would be useful. Pictured here:

Ode to the Bed

2008-02-20T18:53:00.000-08:00

match set of mattress and boxspring
oh soft one, we have so longed for.

you brought us joy when we pushed
pulled heaved you through our door.

for four long weeks we have dreamt of you
while we yet slept on the rock hard floor.

paul voiced, "the carpet's not so bad"
but it got harder as the nights onward wore.

we love you dear soft feathery bed
right down to your fluff-a-lumptious core.

you were named well, oh, sleepyhead
serenity vitality; the label you bore.

the dusty flannel sheets that wrap you
were crap from the time they left the store.

oh bed, you are worthy of only legend
mythical fairytale; mystical lore.

bed, we adore your quilted soul
with a love that increases evermore.

and thanks to you oh wondrous bed
our backs, our spines are no longer sore.

Sail away...

2008-02-19T17:32:00.000-08:00

As our consolation prize for not being able to afford 2 train tickets we went for a spin with Eric-a, Bullfrog, Tonka, and Geezer the People Pleaser. By spin i mean a sail around the Auckland Harbor and the Bay of Islands in an America Cup Race Boat. IT WAS AMAZING! (please read the last line in a high-pitch monotone robot voice to get the full effect.)

Say what?!

2008-02-17T17:51:00.000-08:00

Now that we are starting to venture out into actual conversations with people other than ourselves we are beginning to learn a bit more about pronunciations and idioms of the kiwi language. Its been awkward. We live off Quay Street. Even though our address is Dockside Lane, our actual building faces Quay Street. We went to a church yesterday. It took us an hour and twenty minutes to walk there but we made it in time for the service. After the service was meet and greet/tea and biscuit time. The parishioners were really friendly and not the least bit hesitant at correcting our pronunciations of things. They asked where we lived. We told them Quay Street. They looked at us blankly. We said down by the docks. They corrected us by saying, "Oh, the ports, (uh, yeah, the ports...what's the difference??) Quay Street." We pronounced it Quay, rhymes with Ray. They pronounced it Key, rhymes with Knee. The worst part about this was that i didn't pick up on it, because of their accents until we had actually left the church to hike home. As we were scaling down a hill-side field desperate to find a short-cut Paul said, "Did you realize they pronounce Quay Street, Key Street?" No, i hadn't. As Paul was talking to an older gentlemen, i overheard the conversation. They were talking about hiking down on the south island. The older gentleman used the word tramping instead of hiking. I knew what he meant and desperate to fit in, being a former REI employee and avid hiker, i burst in "Tramping is my life!" The older gentleman was delighted. Paul had to choke back the snickers and keep from spewing tea all over the place. And so continued my awkward moment pregnant with awkward moments. Good grief.

So the deal is...

2008-02-16T17:26:00.000-08:00

This weekend we had planned for an unplanned adventure. The idea was to pack one bag between us with some survival necessities and take the Friday evening train to anywhere south of here and stay till Sunday evening. We packed a bag and headed out. There are two train stations. One, 3 blocks west of us. One, 2 blocks east. I always thought the one east of us was the real deal. The one that connected us to the rest of New Zealand. Paul maintained that the one west of us, Britomart, was the new deal and the other deal was history. We headed to Britomart. We now both think the other deal is the main deal. We also now think that we'll have to wait till after tourist season to go anywhere since it currently costs two kidneys (my left, his right) for two people to go anywhere but here. We retreated to our humble abode and reconsidered our plan for the weekend. It seems every other weekend is some sailing/boating/yachting celebration so we took a walk to the Viaduct Harbor to witness the festivities. Its no surprise Auckland is nicknamed the City of Sails, home to the largest harbor in the southern hemisphere where over 2,000 boats are currently docked. (Enough with the trivia facts.) We stood there and watched some boats go by. There were tents in one of the parking lots hosting refuge to some 20 dragon boat teams that had just finished competing and were now celebrating. We meandered through them unnoticed. There was a sudden stir and teams ran to the fence with cameras. We looked up. Paul started chuckling. Me, being slow on the uptake took a bit longer to figure out what was so hilarious. A small sailboat was motoring behind a rent-a-cruise ferry. Tied to the mast by his shirt, was apparently the loser of some bet or race. He was thread less except for his shirt behind him and his shorts down around his ankles. His buddies were laughing. One even stood at the front snapping photos to capture this breezy moment. We made mental notes (not mental pictures) to never enter a competition with any friends we made down here who owned or rented sailboats. We could end up on the mast in the buff in front of hundreds of spectators. And that would be the raw deal. (sorry...no x-rated picture)

The Bar

2008-02-15T23:53:00.000-08:00

Our search was on again. This time for a solicitor/barrister, or a justice of the peace for those of us who thought of solicitors as those annoying door-to-door persons asking for money or assistance or a buyer for their product or religion. No, they aren't those here. Here they are the kind of people you go to if you need a copy of an important document certified that it is indeed the full and complete copy of said document. I needed one of those. My international teaching qualification papers finally came through signifying that i am indeed qualified in the country of New Zealand to teach levels tot to teenager. The next step was to apply to the teachers council for my actual license to teach. We were directed in several various directions by some very helpful blokes and gals and not making any progress except to discover yet more streets we hadn't walked on yet. We came to a building devoted to nothing but solicitors/barristers and lawyers. Oh, goody. Surely we'll get someone who can stamp my papers and send me on my merry way. We worked our way up the elevators in a very unscientific fashion. Getting off on whatever floors the other "lift" patrons didn't. Floor 2. All on lunch. Floor 5. Out. Floor 3. Locked up for the day. (bizarre schedules, these keepers of the laws) Floor 8. Mr. Thwaite. Wait till you meet Mr. Thwaite. Heaven forbid you ever get to. He couldn't help us, he was too busy but literally forced the telephone book into my hands, and phone into Paul's and then switching, saying no that i should call he should look it up. All the while babbling somewhat incoherently about living in the States at one time and only ever paying taxes to Reagan. I called the first number, wouldn't be available to stamp anything until Thursday. We said, ok, hung up, told Mr. Thwaite thanks and proceeded to leave. He demanded we call another number telling us that the person we called would have been the last one he would have recommended. (excellent! you should have said so to begin with.) We called the next number. No answer. At this point we were itching to escape the tiny cramped getting stuffier by the second place of work. I gave Paul the look. He knew what i meant. Paul put on such a convincing performance i almost believed he actually got a hold of someone. We said thanks again, he was satisfied we had the help coming we needed and let us depart, we skipped the rest of the building. The following two places weren't going to have anyone to sign my papers till Thursday as well. Thursday seemed to be the significant day for that sort of thing so we stopped. Thursday we decided to try a little closer to home and walked across the street and up a bit coming to a very friendly barrister with a magnificent handlebar mustache. He signed and stamped right away, no questions asked no money charged. I have a renewed appreciation for gentlemen with handlebar mustaches. My great-grandfather had one, fairly magnificent one as well. Good story that goes along with it too. Ask my dad.

He lost the game

2008-02-11T22:04:00.000-08:00

Our new residence is fairly quiet, other than bananas falling from the sky, we're just not getting the consistent material we were at the hostel. Today we created a bit of our own.

For the past week Paul has been hemming and hawing at whether he should shave his head. I think part novelty, part convenience. Yesterday when we had finished our morning run and were scaling the concrete steps towards our flat he said, "I'm going to bic it today." I'd heard this before so while excited, it was a still not going to believe till i saw it sort of thing. He stalled again.

For those of you that don't know the game, "Settlers of Catan", its pretty fun. Its one that Seth and Becky got us addicted to and one that we in turn addicted Doug and Melanie to. (The gift that keeps on giving, still waiting to hear whether Jen and Kyle bought it for themselves.) Since Beck and Seth are currently absentee we've had no other choice then to play against each other. Its not a dungeons and dragons sub-culture or anything, believe me, i know the difference and am currently sitting in the student lounge witnessing a convention of about 5 major games going on. Sorry, i digress. So while Paul was setting up our game today, he announced, if i lose, i'll bic it. Game on.

It was a 20 point game and close the entire way, until, after gaining the monopoly on sheep, i skipped ahead 4 points securing my victory and a new haircut for Paul.

He was a good sport.

Splat

2008-02-09T16:33:00.000-08:00

Like a banana falling out of the sky, oh wait, it is a banana falling from the sky.

(And here we all thought banana splits and ice cream sundaes were a harsh way to go.)

Paul and i were sitting on the floor of our apartment watching "Stranger than Fiction" on the laptop. Our sliding glass door was pulled back about a foot and a half. The afternoon breeze made the temperature perfect. Will Ferrell was just about to give the object of his affection some flours when a banana threw itself on our doorstep. It chucked its mushy remains just inside the door, partially on the carpet and what didn't splatter immediately on the wall to its right, flew inside about another 5 feet toward us and our clothes. What the heck?@#$! I sat frozen and stunned. I'd never witnessed the aftermath of a fruit committing suicide, let alone on our doorstep. Paul was quicker to action. He leapt up before i had even processed what had happened. He jumped over the sickened remains and ran out to our porch. He looked up towards the sky, probably searching for the catalyst since neither of us were aware of bananas ever moving on their own accord. (Although, there were those bananas back in the 90's that climbed stairs in pajamas...) At this point i was on my feet, looking up as well. No one lives above us and by that i mean they couldn't, unless they wanted to camp out on our roof. We have neighbors directly to our right and immediately perpendicular to them, -a high-rise of eight stories filled with more neighbors. Using my CSI skills, i judged the direction of the splatter and correlated trajectory of this cousin to the plantain deeming that it came from one of the higher apartments. It just seemed so shocking that someone would actually do that on purpose. But where did the banana come from? We looked at the above apartments, spying for doors opening or closing, checking to see if anyone was peering down when a really really big New Zealand seagull, called a skua, flew overhead carrying a red snapper. The fish suddenly tumbled free. The skua swooped down to catch it. Our view was obscured by the buildings so we weren't able to witness its recovery. It gave us our explanation though. The banana preferred to take its life into its own hands than fall prey to the torturous talons of the bird. It hurtled itself over 80 feet down, a sight more appalling than i could have imagined.

Spin cycle

2008-02-06T17:07:00.000-08:00

It felt like we were studying for a major final exam. We're no IBM computer engineers but we thought we could handle the technical aspect of operating a washing machine. Oh, how wrong we were. Not only were we defeated by a common household appliance but we got our butts handed to us. Robocops got nothing on our new state of the art washer/drying machine. No, not a stackable...an all in one. One compact, complex, completely frustrating piece of technological wizardry. We think, once we conquer "It" it will be to our benefit but for now, this Thing is taking charge of what It wants our clothes to look like, smell like and feel like. It sits in the corner of our bathroom, neatly tucked away behind our bathroom door. It stands no higher than 3 feet, looking ever so innocent. It washes, dries and has a 5 1/2 star energy rating. The theory is: you put your clothes in and 4 hours later out comes the cleanest, driest, best smelling unmentionables you can imagine. The problem is: the multiple flashing light and buttons don't translate to anything either of us has ever used before. There are symbols which we interpreted as some ancient form of Sanskrit and various numbers that only serve to intimidate. We dug out the manual. Yes, that's right, two self-sufficient stubborn first-borns broke down (nearly to the point of tears) and humbly studied.

The first load produced clean, yet very damp clothes. We couldn't get the drier to come on again without it washing them all over again. And, while fun, we didn't feel like testing its water saving ability for a second time. We laid the soggy linen across our apartment floor. Gluttons for punishment we attempted a second load. Soap, clothes, shut door, lock, push buttons, begin. One would think it was simple. It wasn't. This time, 6 hours later, we woke up to clean and this time dry but hopelessly, desperately, impossibly wrinkled t-shirts, shorts, skirts and intimates. We almost thought someone had come in during the night and switched out our clothes. They were unrecognizable. When we work up enough sweat and stink in our current clothes we'll attempt a third load. We'll get it right one of these days.

Someone once said, "Third times a charm". That was probably uttered before there were washing/drying contraptions. We can hope though. We can hope.

what to do?

2008-02-05T00:39:00.000-08:00

Since our fun money is currently in a holding tank and we've exhausted the cities freebee bits i was trying to think of ways to stave off boredom. I shared one of my ideas with Paul. He told me to consider the long-term effects before we made any rash decisions, maybe give it a year or two. I thought about it for a bit. He's right. Having children merely to avoid being bored is not the best idea i've ever had.

The hunt

2008-02-03T14:14:00.000-08:00

The bits and pieces we gathered from the short conversations with locals on our long walks were giving us the impression that we needed to find an apartment before many more were snatched. I had forgotten how necessary my cell phone was and how searching for a place to live was becoming even harder without one. The residences here are quite secure. I appreciate that, especially after tea time with SWAT last fall. The rub is how to even talk to anyone to get inside to find out how to use that security to our benefit. Being that Paul and i are the self-sufficient stubborn types, it was going to take a little humility or an open door or a lot of leg work to get a roof over our heads. Or all three. We'll brief you on the highlights since we've spent the past two and half days searching. In our search for food we happened upon The Docks Apartments. The office was open so we walked in. Mr. Santer offered to show us a one bedroom since a 2 was out of our price-range, first the unfurnished, then the furnished. The unfurnished was tight, and by tight i mean really, really small. I've said it before, Americans take their square footage for granted. He showed us the furnished. We tried hard not to laugh. The furniture looked like it was made out of matchsticks and the couch was size: Paul-and-half-of-one-of-my-butt-cheeks. The bed, well, we'd have to take turns sleeping on it and when it was Paul's shift he'd have to be diagonal. Picture the scene from the movie "Elf" and you'll have an idea. We thanked him for his time and started to work the rest of the city in a zig-zag sort of formation. Our quest gave us one thing...a scale of comparison for fair prices and weeded out our need for a furnished apartment. We'll take our chances with what sticks we can find once we've secured a roof. We walked some more. We came upon the The Towers, or what Paul refers to as "The over-priced holes jetting into the sky". The Tower actually consists of two elevator shafts, each surrounded by a series of cubbie-holes, called apartments. The guy at the desk handed us a key stating the tenant hadn't checked in yet so we could inspect it for ourselves, and added that water, electric, phone and a weekly cleaning was all included for $350NZD a week. We found the elevator, easily, since it was the mitochondria of the cell, and rode up to the 8th floor. The door immediately opened to a hot-plate, a sink the size of a cereal bowl, and the smell of pee. Immediately (and i mean immediately) off of the kitchen was a room with a double bed, a larger room with a twin bed and a toilet room. I was trying to think positively when i suggested it wasn't so bad and that we could turn one of the rooms into a study/living room/guest bedroom and the other just a bedroom. Paul was thinking realistically when he pointed out that you couldn't stand at one end without touching someone standing at the other end. Then we discovered something even more alarming. We noticed the numbers on the bedroom doors (if you could call them that) and realized...we were standing in two apartments at the same time. While quite impressed that we could be in two places at once, we were equally unimpressed that we would actually be sharing our spit of a kitchen and whiff of a toilet with someone else. We returned the key and ran. After more searching and examining and inspecting and walking so much i wanted to take my legs off and carry them we decided we still liked The Docks the best and the price they were asking was actually looking more and more reasonable. We sent an email the Mr. Santer stating we were interested in the unfurnished one bedroom and we'd be by Monday to apply. Sunday, in another attempt to explore the city and blister our blisters we unintentionally ended up at The Docks. Surprised the office was open we walked in to inquire. Mr. Santer hadn't gotten our email but that if we wanted a place we should probably get it ASAP since the two he showed us last week were already gone and he had one left that he had just shown to another lady only minutes before. (I knew he wasn't lying since i'd seen her leave and confirm the apt no. as she did, unless...it was just an elaborate performance) He showed us Apt. 133. After all we'd been through, it looked like paradise. "What do we need to do to get it?" (Thinking we needed our visas and credit approvals and such.) "Just sign some paperwork, pay the fees and its yours."

We have an apartment and we still can't get a library card. This is an unusual country.

Daytime, we got one for you.

2008-02-02T19:31:00.000-08:00

"So what was your favorite argument last night?" (These are the first words out of Paul's mouth this morning.)
"Um, probably the Brit and the Indian cab driver." "Yours?" (These are mine.)
"The two Italians."
"I don't remember that one, must of slept through it."
"How 'bout the cat-fight?"
"That was the loudest."

We've been at the hostel for 3 nights now and even though our days are filled with walking the city for hours and all the wonders that brings, it's our nights that contain the most blog-worthy commentary on life in Auckland. We're considering writing a series for CBS entitled "Out My Hostel Window". We think we'll get a daytime drama spot. You know the ones, with love, broken hearts and various people mysteriously coming back from the dead. The cat fight started with 2 main characters and one girl standing there. Girls A and B yelled it out for a bit then A walked away leaving C to defend A to B; something about bad names and insinuating something about her not being in a gang when indeed she was. Not sure, just that it was loud and long. The Brit and the cab driver was more intriguing. The Brit asked the cabbie about when the bus would come again to take him to the airport. Cabbie informed him that the bus had stopped running a couple hours ago. Brit asked if he could bring him, Cabbie said maybe but that he already was taking someone and would still charge him full price. The next part of the conversation got really quiet so i can only guess as to what words were exchanged. All i do know is that about 45 seconds later the cabbie yelled at the top of his lungs, "I AM NOT YOUR PORNO!" An interesting statement in and of itself. Even more curious since he grabbed the Brit by the arm and dragged him to the other side of the street and told him not to talk to him anymore and to find a different cab.

While we enjoy the blog material conveniently at our window sill, we crave a full night's sleep. We found an apartment and signed the papers today. We love it. (More to follow with description and pictures.) Suffice to say for now, we are beginning to see how much we'd taken square footage for granted. We found our Mouse House, but at least its our Mouse House on Wednesday and for the following 6 months of Wednesdays.

Hostel Environment

2008-02-01T19:44:00.000-08:00

We feel the need to share with you our hostel living situation. If you have ever tried to fit yourself, your 6'2" hairy husband, and 4 larger than life duffels into a mop closet then you'll have an idea of what living in an Auckland youth hostel is like. Paul had pre-arranged for a double bedroom. I don't want to even ask what a single looks like. The double bed is pressed against four walls and they still find the space for a desk. Put our bags on the floor and you have to leap from the door to the bed. (which actually isn't that far.) What would be the head of the bed is an open window. I say open because we'd suffocate if we closed it, being that we consume all the available oxygen in the room with each breath. There is no screen, so i worry every night that my pillow is going to fall out to the street sidewalk 10 feet below. In the nights that have followed i've realized i needn't have worried since the usually quiet street becomes mardi gras central at 10pm and ends with a cacophony of birds at sunrise. All i would need to say is "Hey mate, do you mind tossing my pillow back up?" "Cheers!"

Last night was especially interesting and educational as we were able to observe and listen to with extreme clarity (that would rival any Dolby Digital surround sound), a kiwi's version of "getting dissed" at say, oh, about 2am.

Actual conversation:
girl kiwi: "Oy!" "Do you have a light?"
boy kiwi: "I don't smoke."
g: "Good Boy!" (pause as she rethinks her approach) "Do you want to go clubbing?"
b: "I can't, I'm working."
g: "Are you the security guard?" (Finally noticing his uniform)
b: "Yes"
g: "Do you want to go clubbing tomorrow night then?"
b: "No, i work tomorrow too."
g: "oh." (dejectedly exits scene)

Today we searched in earnest for apartments.

flew to summertime

2008-01-31T15:28:00.000-08:00

We are two pasty-white, travel-weary souls stumbling around a foreign city, trying desperately to blend in amongst tanned, eclectically dressed locals who call this place home. Like the orphans tripping through the fur coats in the Wardrobe, we had found the time portal from winter into summer and a land entirely unknown to us. We traded our jeans and winter jackets for shorts and t-shirts. We found comfort in the fact that we weren't the only non-kiwis. Neither of us expected the incredible Asian population here. It makes complete sense but i don't think, in the midst of packing and preparing for this journey, we'd stopped to even consider it. Exhausted, we weaved through the masses on Queen St. in search of food, both feeling overwhelmed and wondering how clearly we thought this venture through. After a night of rest, or stone-dead slumber if we're being completely honest, the city took on a more promising hue. (i awoke with not one but both arms completely useless.) We donned our running shoes and crossed Grafton Bridge toward the medical school. We found what we think is Auckland's version of Central Park. It is absolutely gorgeous. After climbing the hill toward the Museum we had a view of the northwest harbor and ocean. We crossed over toward the south side rugby fields and the district beyond. You can't flick a flea and not hit a cafe/coffee shop. I couldn't believe the sheer number of starbucks on queen st. and now on the other side of Grafton Bridge were even more privately owned cafe establishments. Wearing our exercise duds we skipped the first two, observing ties and high-heels. We settled on "Jones the Grocer". Which may be too early to tell, but could very possibly become our new favorite specialty shoppe. We selected two fresh cranberry/maple syrup muffins and lattes to-go (i mean, take-away) and walked back to the park to sit and process the last 48 hours. We are still reeling but not feeling quite so frantic. Last night we had acquired a loaf of bread, peanut butter, boysenberry jam and fresh strawberries. We sat on a bench outside of the UofA International building. Lacking utensils, we spread the pb&j with our fingers. Sparrows gathered at our feet, waiting not in vain for crumbs. Spending the past month at my grandparents house, which should probably be given national recognition as a premier coastal bird sanctuary, had given me a new affection for our feathered friends who skittishly hopped near our feet. I tossed chunks of crust. One brave beaked fellow grabbed a piece from my fingers. Another two shared a piece between them. The rest practiced their agility at grabbing crumbs and flying to the rooftops to indulge. I think word spread over night because by this morning we were discovered and implored by some new winged buggers, who this time waited in vain. It's a little harder to give up a cranberry muffin than a crust of bread. Disappointed they returned to their friends on the other side of the bridge to call them imaginative liars.

A Quote to Live By:

2008-01-25T08:38:00.000-08:00

I ran across this quote again and it changed my view of the world again. So, I thought I'd share it with you.

We can do no great things; only small things with great love

-Mother Teresa

We're off to see...

2007-12-21T06:57:00.000-08:00

We're off like a dirty, stinky, sweaty pair of socks. We officially left Colorado. Our remainder of meager belongings and last bits of wedding appliances that we couldn't bear to part with are now securely wrapped in boxes awaiting the New Zealand shipping boys in the confines of a climate controlled 2nd story storage closet. And we are in Virginia with what Christmas gifts and clothes we could stuff into two over sized duffels, two barely zipped travel packs, a wheeled carry-on, and an enormous stretching, ripping red Christmas target bag (which looked like Garfield had a party in it and tried to break out.)

We arrived at DIA yesterday morning to discover that one of our wheeled duffels was 15lbs over the limit and we would now owe AirTran $25 and the prospect of our fly fishing rod getting through security looked grim, according to an annoyed yet forcibly cheery customer service attendant. She even added, with a smile, that we would probably miss our flight if they decided that they wouldn't let it on the plane. How nice.

Security went quite smoothly and nobody even questioned the rod's presence. (Take that, Debbie Downer!)

Our first flight, we sat next to a chatty retired Marine who was on his way, with his wife and kids, to Miami to embark on their first ever family cruise. He was very stoked. Our second flight was less upbeat. The male attendant assigned to our section was quite enamoured with the gentleman across our aisle. He was sending out some serious i-like-you vibes as well as i'm-desperate-for-you-to-like-me-back. I don't believe the passenger, even though, clearly of the same gender preferential genre, shared the return sentiment. It was almost comical if it wasn't so blatantly obvious. He talked to him while motioning the safety protocols. He handed us our beverages and minuscule snacks all the while giving 21E the "puss-in-boots" imploring look. He was still staring when he came by with the last trash run and I had to actually grab the bag to make sure the cup made it in, even though he was holding it out to me.

We made it to Richmond. Our bags obediently came off of the conveyor and we lugged them to the rental car pick-up. In the midst of everything we've been working on and taking care of the past 3 months, pre-arranging a rental car was not one of them. Our bad. Since Christmas is pending and just because they can, they take all your money and your left kidney with a deposit of your gallbladder that is only returned upon return of the rental car and that is purely contingent on it having no nicks, scratches, or smudges and that is with the insurance. Key in hand we continued to huff and haul our belongings in the direction of our dearly paid for wheels, passing a smirking cop who looked suspiciously at the vast amount of our belongings in tow. Coming to the space marked B13 (that should've been a clue right there) we had to do a double take. Before us crouched the chariot of all things impractical with a trunk big enough to hold maybe a carton of milk and a can of wasabi peas: The Dodge Caliber. Somebody was not thinking about toting anything around when they designed this car, and i think that they hadn't really considered even driving it around since the rear-view mirror took up the entire view of what little you could see from the front windshield. You could see where you'd been and what was behind you but, by George, you were not gonna see where you were going. And really, its just a car, who needs to see where they are going?

We smashed, pushed, re-arranged 5 times, squished our luggage into the "trunk" and the back seat and got into the front and meditated for a moment on how the heck we were going to be able to pick up Becky and Seth and all their luggage the next day. We came up with a solution: put their luggage inside on our laps and tie them to the roof. Satisfied, we lurched off in the direction of our friend's home, also known as Casa de Brocks.

First Annual Amish Classic Turkey Trot

2007-11-23T18:54:00.000-08:00

In my previous post i mentioned where we currently are, the armpit of Amish Country, more exactly, in a house on a hill just off Tater Road, turning right off Greasy Gravy Lane. (i am not making this up folks.)

I realize that the epitome of Thanksgiving, for most in this country, stands on the vast consumption of turkey, its lesser known sidekick dishes and as the name reveals, giving thanks. For me, i'd like to add to that pyramid: The Turkey Trot. Most major cities host the race. Cities such as Denver, Indianapolis, and a random town in Arkansas have it every year, rain or snow. The small town of Paoli, Indiana however does not. I kinda see why. Being that the majority of its inhabitants are horse and buggy riding, cow and goat milking, farming, sheep shearing personages i highly doubted they would rally for a race with the same zest as they would for a barn raising. They already choose to work a little harder for the basic comforts of life. I can't quite see them out there in their beards, bonnets and black dresses filing up to the starting line for a 5k. I understood. I still wanted a race.

Paul and i got up Thursday morning and promptly put on our exercise duds. Steven, our brother-in-law, greeted me with, "Who would want to run when they could sit?" I retorted with, "Who would want to sit when they could run." (I secretly understood his point.) We stepped outside and the wind greeted us with the chilly blast to the face. Tradition has gotta start somewhere so we headed toward Tater Road.

Our pace came nowhere close to say, a, performance enhanced Marion Jones but it was a beautifully crisp Thanksgiving day and we were running our Turkey Trot. We had thought we might run the country block but after about 2 1/2 kilometers we weren't coming to any crossroads so after a couple more trots we pulled a 180 and headed back to mashed potatoes, fresh cranberry sauce, steamed veggies and a very large hunk of triptophan in the oven. Who, less than 3 days ago, was running his own little trot in a very well cared for farmyard.

Road Trippin'

2007-11-21T17:26:00.000-08:00

I have summoned the courage to step out from the shadow of my husband's curious writing abilities and add a bit more to our slightly read blog.

We are currently in Paoli, Indiana, the armpit of Amish Country. It's not important that you know where we are or even that this particular place exists except to add the necessary fact that 5/11ths of Paul's immediate family live here and the rest of us converged upon this place for the triptophan ridden holiday we commonly refer to as Thanksgiving. Paul and i left Denver this past Monday and decided, for the fun of it, to drive out here and fly back. The fact that his sister is buying his car from him is a minor detail.

Paul drove and i amused him to keep him awake; even when i was sleeping apparently, something about drool and talking in my sleep. We sang songs, told each other stories, and played the alphabet game forward and backward. Several times. We stopped only to refuel and empty our bladders. About 3am Tuesday morning we paused for one such break and bumped into some Midwestern hospitality. Paul filled up the tank and then we walked inside to find a restroom. We didn't see any obvious bathroom signage so Paul asked the invisible attendant, "Where are the restrooms?" From the back hall we heard a grumpy retort, "The ONE restroom is back here." Paul motioned for me to go first. I stepped into the small hall which had been turned into a stocking room. I was unsure, even upon entering the hallway, where this phantom room of rest was. The man was standing in front of a door. "Well, are you gonna go or what?" After another surveying moment i wondered at the door, but the man was still standing in front of it. Did he want me to push him out the way or squeeze behind him? He looked at me annoyingly. I guessed the latter, so i squeezed past him. Inside, finally, i realized it was once a public loo, but apparently the attendant had not been notified. By now i didn't care. One thought, "must go pee". Second thought, "Check for toilet paper". None, nada, zip, not one square left. I contemplated performing the hovercraft maneuver but its no secret that my legs are of the shorter variety, this toilet was unusually tall, plus i just wasn't in the mood to drip dry. I stepped back out, prepared to face the wrath of Grumpy Gas Grumperson. "Uh, sir, its out of toilet paper." I prepared not in vain. "Well, sh#%, of course it is." He scuffled into hall #2 and pretended to search. "Uh, can't seem to find any and...nope, don't have any." I hurried out to Paul. I brought him up to speed in about 3 seconds and in about 8 seconds we were back in the car and in search of another place. We found respite at a 24-hour-country- home-cookin' restaurant, whose water closet was not in much better shape than the previous but it did have TP so i didn't complain. Five minutes later we were back on the road again. Three and half hours later we made it to the Taylors, in Paoli, Indiana.

Confessions of a Hospital Security Guard

2007-11-10T09:48:00.000-08:00

There is something to be said for the feeling of polyester covering every square inch of your body; the comforting weight of a grossly oversized flashlight dangling from your side; and the knowledge that you are in no way trained to handle anything remotely resembling an emergency. Yep, being a hospital security guard is a little bit like being a Navy SEAL, without the excitement, exercise or state of the art weapon systems. In fact, if Navy SEAL's spent most of their time sitting in tiny glass booths telling everyone in ear shot about the time they restrained a patient three years ago and eating everything in sight, they would be exactly like hospital security guards. There are thousands of brave men and women out there doing jobs you and I can't even imagine just to break even at the end of the month. And, I'm sure there is a desperation worse than the kind it takes for a grown man to put on an ill fitting uniform, a meaningless badge and a walkie-talkie, but I can't think of it right now.

I know what you're thinking, "What a stupid job! Why would any one want to be a hospital security guard?" But, without security guards, what kind of world would we live in? We'd be over run with snot nosed skateboarding hooligans and a catastrophic oversupply of donuts. Any one could park anywhere they wanted. No one would hassle you about wearing your company name badge; even though you've worked with the company for ten years and know the guard whose hassling you on a first name basis. We wouldn't have such gems as "Try to calm down ma'am!"; "I'm just doing my job."; and "Stop or I'll tell you again!" Chuck Norris would only be known for his Total Gym commercials, Block Buster rentals of Super Troopers would drop by 89%, and martial arts supply stores would have to close their doors forever. You could forget about national security and border control if our parking structures and 7-Elevens are left vulnerable. Yeah, get rid of security guards and the very fabric of society starts to unravel. Chaos, war and disaster would quickly ensue and the Antichrist would make his first appearance as a trespassing teenage pot smoker with an "I (heart) cops" tee shirt and ripped blue jeans.

Okay, maybe the world wouldn't completely fall apart, but you get the point. The truth is, we all have a place in the grand scheme of things; it's just that some of us have missed ours completely.

There are all kinds of security guards on this planet, but hospital security is a special breed. It ranks, in the hierarchical structure that is modern medicine, somewhere between MRSA (Methicillin-Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus, [a drug hesistant staph infection]) and Nationalized Healthcare. Security doesn't exactly fit into the grandiose picture of patient care that doctors, nurses and administrators have in mind when they decide to go into the healing arts. Guards don't add anything to the bottom line and consume one hundred times their body weight at staff picnics and potlucks. Doctors despise them, nurses are afraid of them and Risk Management doesn't sleep at night knowing they have the keys to every door in the building. So why, you might ask, do hospitals have security guards? I don't have a straight answer for you. Maybe we all like to take a certain amount of risk and have inherently self-destructive tendencies. Maybe it helps those who have succeeded, to have an example of what could have been if a single gene had spiced left when it should have gone right. Whatever the reason, hospital security is here and it would take a whole lot of jelly filling to get them to leave.

All this was on my mind in 2003 when I decided to infiltrate their ranks and find the answers to these and many other questions. I would bravely enter the under belly world of power trips and cholesterol to get to the root of this highly secretive and close-knit fraternity. Like Hunter S. Thompson and Robert Young Pelton before me, only more dangerous and dynamic, I vowed to blend in, investigate and report what I found behind the polyester wall of silence.

The two years that followed would change my life and my waistband forever. I would come to know real fear, insatiable hunger and a power unfit for mortal humans. In the realm of fake tickets and yellow strobe lights, there is no room for error. A rent a cop can smell a cheap imitation from a mile away and you better be ready to consume donuts, lots and lots of donuts. If you hesitate, even once, your cover is blown. If I've learned one thing from my time in security work, it's that you should never underestimate a man with a plastic badge and a real set of handcuffs.

Olfactory Confessions

2007-10-17T12:51:00.000-07:00

A writer can only write so long without mentioning the biggest part of his or her life. For some writers this luming presence is a thought or an idea. For others, this gargantuan spectre is a childhood event or tragedy. What ever this humongous, gigantic, or enormous thing may be a writer can never be fully content or understood until he or she has dealt with it in real and honest terms. Shakespeare, for example, it is believed, wrote many of the tiny words seen at the bottom of TV commercials before he was able to slay his giant. "Irritable Bowl Syndrome" was not his best work, but it was a brutally honest portrayal of a terrible affliction. When it premiered, people were shocked, even appalled, but its therapeutic value for William can not be underestimated. Lost to time, this disturbing play opened the door for such great works as "Hamlet" and "Romeo and Juliet". For Shakespeare it was IBS, for me, as for most Taylor's, it's my nose.

My name is Paul Taylor and I've got a really big nose. If you don't have one or live with someone who does, you can't possibly understand what I go through. Just try to imagine, what its like to have your other senses deadened because your sense of smell is so strong; or never being able to turn your head and walk through a doorway at the same time; or wondering if today is the day your neck will give out from the sheer weight of the thing! Yeah, doesn't sound so fun now does it, you nosist pig? It's always "Mommy, mommy I want a big funny clown nose too!" Until your neck gives out and you find yourself face down on the sidewalk, too exhausted to lift yourself, and your dog is having its way with your leg while school children gather around and laugh. I can live with these things, I've done it all my life, it's the people I care about who suffer most. My poor wife can't kiss me without tying herself down to something solid, just in case, during a moment of passion I inhale too deeply.

It's not all bad though, I have my good days too. We all have handicaps. Some of them just happen to be more visible than others. Just because my handicap walks around in front of me yelling "Here I am big and bulbous blah...blah...blah!" doesn't mean I'm not petite and cute as a button on the inside, like a little Swiss ski jump. And, we all know it's the cute little Swiss ski jumps on the inside that count.

My name is Paul Taylor and I've got a really big nose.

Toaster Wars

2007-10-12T11:39:00.000-07:00

[Que Star Wars Music]

NaNaNa NAAAAAA NA NANANA NAAAAAA NA NANANA NAAAAA NA NaNaNa naaaaaaa

Long Long Ago,
In a galaxy far far away......

So, this isn't MySpace and you have to use your imagination a little...Get Over It! We can't all afford the very best of everything can we? Some of us have to make do with what we've got and, well, this is the best I've got (A couple of nana's in upper and lower case letters is all you're going to get and you should be thankful for that!). This generation makes me sick, you all have to have surround sound in Dolby digital; flat screen televisions and toilet paper. In my day, a couple of nana's would send us through the roof, but not you whiners, you won't poop without four-ply, triple quilted, downy scented squares of cloudy soft shame.

Anyway, I'm getting a little side tracked. I was perusing my last post and realized I hadn't really said anything about our marriage and this is, after all, a marriage blog...Imagine my embarrassment! So, I thought I should amend this disgusting oversight immediately.

You see, Jess and I recently got married and that entailed moving all of our stuff into the same general location. This, from an outsiders perspective, might seem pretty easy...and they would be right, it is easy! To my relief moving in together went very very smoothly...almost too smoothly. In fact it wasn't until we were unpacking the last box that we realized the challenge, nay, the evil twist of plot, that lay before us. We had not one but two toasters! Now the simple minded might say "Great! We can have twice as much toast!". But not us, no, we took this minor kink in an otherwise perfect move and blew it way out of proportion.

My toaster was sleek, new and shiny, the Ferrari of toasters really; and Jess' toaster was, well, old. She said something about classic and sentimental value but all I saw was a beat up old toaster. She said "I've had this toaster a long time and I'd like to keep it!"

I've been wearing this underwear a long time too, I thought, but it doesn't mean I wouldn't change them if someone offered me a shiny new pair. But, she seemed determined, so I changed the subject and snuck my toaster onto the kitchen counter when she wasn't looking. Problem solved, I just knew she'd forget all about Barney Rubble and his toaster once she had given my dream toast making machine a try! The plan seemed fool proof until she noticed my toaster on the counter. "Hey!" She said, "I thought we agreed to keep my toaster!"

Uh Oh, I thought, not only has my planned failed, but my memory is failing too! Dumbfounded, I said something about looking over there and ran into the other room.

For weeks, both of us refused to use the others toaster. Until Jess brought it to my attention that our behavior was immature and ridiculous. So, because I hate to be immature and ridiculous, we put our thinking caps on and tried to come up with a compromise. "I know!" I said eyes narrowing, "We could have a toast off!"

And so the stage was set. We demonstrated the highlights of our treasured machines; we tasted each others toast; and glared at each other. Until finally, after my toaster had clearly won and she obviously looked away first, we were right back where we started. Worn out, tired and exhausted we sat defeated on the kitchen floor. Just then, Seth, our brother-in-law, knocked on the door. "Let's let him take which ever toaster he wants!" Jess said, a little too enthusiastically. "Okay", I said nonchalantly, my exterior was like a pond of serenity but my insides quivered like a new born llama on meth. I just knew he was going to pick my baby and I would be without my Lamborghini of English muffin heaven.

When Jess presented him with the idea he shrugged, picked up Jess's toaster and walked out the door. "That's easy" he said, "I'll take the classic!"

Suddenly, my toaster looked cheap and plastic. Something you might find in Walmart while my brother-in-law walked out with a treasure beyond melted butter. "Are you sure you don't want the new one?" I asked hopefully.

"Nah," he said, "the old ones always make better toast."

New Era

2007-10-11T11:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, here we go, my first blog ever. I'm embarrassed to say that all previous blogs have been the contribution of my beautiful and linguistically gifted wife. She not only writes funny, charming, and dare I say provocative blogs, but she lets me bask in the credit of their creation (and if you haven't seen a full grown, 200 pound male of the species, with hair like a gorilla on Rogain, "basking", then you haven't lived!). What a Woman! And, while this is one tremendous perk of being married to such a talented vixen, I think its time for me to hop off the old free ride to blogger infamy and strike out on my own. She shouldn't have to bare the burden of always coming up with the cute, funny little stories that lighten the unbearably mundane lives of our two blogger groupies (whose very happiness, dare I say existence, is intrinsically tied to the tectonic action of her comedic prose).

Yes, I know you crave her stuff; but us Lilliputians of the literary world need our voice too. Like Michelangelo's little brother Jimmy, its time for me to step out from behind the giant shadow cast by "big brother" and sculpt... That's right sculpt. If not the "David" then perhaps the "Tooth Pick Log Cabin" or the no less challenging "Clay Mountain". What ever form this ill advised expression of inner turmoil takes, you can rest assured that it will be pure and tortured. Because, what I lack in talent, charm and good looks, I make up for with determination, the ability to fart on command and hair every where but the top of my head. Thats right folks (and by folks I mean the two of you), this blog has entered a new era, if not for the better than at least its new and that, my pudgy little Internet scavengers, is all any of us can ask for.

P.S.
My wife tells me it's not a good idea to insult the readers (rookie mistake).

A Yoga Conundrum

2007-08-01T06:33:00.000-07:00

Our original intent was to keep a journal of our first year of married life, but now, months later you have only march 15th to thank for your reading pleasure. Fortunately for you July 31st was last night and since every knows that is Mid-Year Resolution Day, August 1st gives you an update. Bring out the heavily inflated yet biodegradable non wildlife-killing balloons and ticker tape, lots of melt in-the-rain ticker tape.

Since we like to think of ourselves as an outdoorsy couple we thought a few camping trips would be necessary to keep that reputation alive. Our most recent consisted of a Friday night drive to Maroon Bells and Snowmass outside of Aspen, a sleep at the conundrum trial head, a curious wake-up by a Porsche-driving lap-dog commanding over-outfitted man (who said, as he was donning a long-sleeve tech tee over his already sun-screen coated arms, to his disobedient dog, Cosmos, "I am your Master."), a heavy exhausting 8.5 mile wildflower-covered hike up a couple thousand feet in elevation, a treeline nook for our tent and our goal: natural hot springs. Oh, did I mention the natural part? Not quite sure to what degree he considered himself a naturalist but one particularly leather-tanned dude was void of threads and full of yoga-like movements which he proudly performed on the grassy knoll next to the hot springs and only during audience-filled intervals. I don't know if he was going for amused or awed but he got the former. We retreated the next day, cutting our time in half on the descent but traffic doubling it on the road, and then, finally, non-freeze-dried food and a clean shower.

Paul is currently unaware of my re-design or my resolution so i may leave the next informative update to him. (And hopefully that will be before Last Quarter of the Year Resolutions or we will be rounding up to a full year with a whole 3 updates for our friends and fans.)

Hardhat not required

2007-03-15T21:08:00.000-07:00

So the day is finally approaching, another hard-to-get beauty and stoic stud muffin (commence side-splitting laughter) will be officially "tying the knot" and off the market (could someone please tell us where "tying the knot" came from??).

Our hope for this blog is to keep you informed of various updates, both necessary and superfluous, that will precede and follow our nuptial bliss.

We hereby promise that nothing will be tossed, thrown or otherwise hurled at anyone throughout the course of our wedding (at least not on purpose or in premeditation). This includes but is not limited to: rice, floral arrangements, birdseed, car keys or undergarments. (We know that this was one of your greatest concerns and hoped to alleviate any stress you may have suffered otherwise. Inspectors are due next week to further ensure the safety of this happiest of days.)

We are looking forward to sharing this day with you as we start our bright new bruise-free future together.

We love you all and hope that each one of you can be there.